POEMS. 


HOURS  OF  LIFE, 


AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


BY 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN 


PROVIDENCE: 

GEORGE   H.    WHITNEY. 

1  853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

GEORGE  H.  WHITNEY, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Rhode-Island. 


KNOWLES,  ANTHONY   &   CO.  PRINTERS. 


CONTENTS. 


HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

PAGE. 

MORNING 3 

NOON 13 

EVENING 30 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  GOLDEN  BALL 43 

MOONRISE  IN  MAY 52 

THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS 56 

A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN 60 

THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH 63 

"  THE  RAVEN  " 66 

A  NIGHT  IN  AUGUST 70 

MORNING.    From  "The  Sleeping  Beauty." 73 

THE  LAST  FLOWERS 75 

ARCTURUS.    Written  in  October 77 

Written  in  April 79 

THE  MORNING  GLORY 82 

THE  PHANTOM  VOICE 85 

RESURGAMUS 83 

To  THE  MORNING  STAR 93 

Ox  A  STATUE  OF  DAVID 96 

WOOD-WALKS  IN  SPRING 99 

960*35 


VI  CONTENTS. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVENBER 103 

EVENING  ON  THE  MOOSHAUSSUCK 107 

THE  GARDEN  SEPULCHRE 110 

OUR  ISLAND  OF  DREAMS , 115 

^  IN  APRIL'S  DIM  AND  SHOWERY  NIGHTS 118 

THD  ENCHANTED  CASTLE 120 

THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN 123 

•v.  SUNMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN 128 

A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS 133 

A  VISION  OF  PARADISE 137 

THE  PAST 141 

\  A  DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER 145 

*  SHE  BLOOMS  NO  MORE 151 

ON  A  MAGDALEN  BY  CARLO  DOLCE 154 

To  155 

MORNING  AFTER  A  STORM 157 

To  159 

FLORALIE 1C1 

STANZAS  WITH  A  BRIDAL  RING 1G3 

ON  F ANNIE'S  CHARM  LAMP 165 

SONG 166 

THE  DRAMA 168 

ROGER  WILLIAMS 174 

THE  CROSS.    To  M.  J.  L 180 

SONNETS. 
To  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

1 185 

H 180 

HI ..187 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


THE  GARDEN  MINSTER 188 

To  E.  O.  S 189 

A  NOVEMBER  LANDSCAPE 190 

WITHERED  FLO  AVERS 191 

REMEMBERED  Music 192 

To  

-   1 193, 

—  II ....1941 

Ill 105j 

—IV 1S5> 

V 196 

ATI..  ..197, 


TRANSLATIONS   FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

THE  LOST  CHURCH 2011 

LEONORA 205 

FROM  GOETHE'S  FAUST 218 

To  THE  CLOUDS 220 

THE  DYING  HEROES 222 

THE  COTTAGE 225 

SONNET. 
MY  FLOWERS...,  ...227 


IIOUKS  OF  LIFE. 


y 


HOUES   OF   LIFE. 


MORNING. 

"Temp'  era  dal  principle  del  matino 
E'l  sol  montava  in  su  con  quelle  stelle 
Ch'eran  con  lui  quando  1'Amor  divino 
Mosse  da  prima  quelle  cose  belle  ; 
Si  cha  bene  sperir  mera  cagione 
L'ora  del  tempo  e  la  dolce  stagione." 

DANTE. 

Ere  youth  with  its  auroral  blooms 

Dispels  the  tender  twilight  glooms 

Of  Infancy,  while  yet  it  lies 

Close  to  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

No  fears  the  guileless  bosom  thrill, 

The  little  stranger  slumbers  still, 

O'er  shadowed  by  the  silent  wings 

Of  angels,  'till  the  morning  brings 

Music  and  perfume,  and  around  him  flings 

Her  rosy  mist-wreaths,  drooping  warm  and  low, 

And  prints  her  fragrant  kisses  on  his  brow. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


Startled  from  out  that  dreamless  rest, 

Through  mist-wreaths,  drooping  warm  and  low, 
I  saw  her  faint  smile  in  the  east, 

I  felt  her  kisses  on  my  brow. 


From  the  high  meadows,  dewy-sweet, 
Fair  Eos  with  her  silver  feet 
Chased  the  shadows  as  they  crept 
Under  woodland  boughs  away, 
Or  down  the  airy  uplands  swept 
Into  hollows  cool  and  grey, 
'Till  her  full  refulgence,  bright 
As  a  perfect  crysolite, 
Filled  the  solemn  dome  of  Night  1 


With  a  sweet,  indolent  surprise, 
Undimmed  by  haunting  memories, 
I  saw  the  gradual  glory  rise. 


Divinely  calm  and  fancy-free 
Were  those  morning  hours  to  me, 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

I  recked  not  of  the  bitter  root 
That  bears  the  paradisal  fruit, 
I  knew  not  that  the  serpent  brood 
Lurked  in  that  aidenn  solitude, 
For  childhood  kept  inviolate 
The  tenure  of  its  fair  estate, 
Lulled  in  a  murmurous  monotone, 
As  when  bees  in  violets  drone. 


'Till  gently  as  the  spring-time  showers 
Wake  the  rose-buds  into  flowers, 
Nature  wrought  her  spells  to  lure 
The  child-heart  from  its  clear-obscure. 
Dazzling  the  bewildered  sense 
With  daedalian  opulence, 
Protean  visions,  sweet  and  strange, 
And  swift  and  subtle  interchange 
Of  light  with  shadow,  too  intense 
For  the  sweet  calm  of  innocence  : 
Soon  like  the  pure  and  priceless  pearl 
In  Egypt's  festal  goblet  tossed, 
It  vanished  in  the  dizzy  whirl 
Of  life's  bewildering  pleasures  lost. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

Wild  hopes  came  fluttering  round  my  heart 
And  swept  its  folded  leaves  apart, 
As  underneath  those  cloudless  skies 
I  wandered  with  my  Destinies, 
Nor  sought  to  read  their  silent  eyes. 


Thoughts  for  pain  too  dear — too  deep 
For  pleasure — caused  the  heart  to  weep 
Tears  that  steeped  in  fragrance  fell 
Like  dew-drops  from  the  lily's  bell. 


Dream  followed  dream  :  and  still  the  day 
Floated  on  golden  wings  away. 


Then,  while  each  little  woodland  bird 
One  sweet  note  forever  sung, 
My  heart  on  one  bewildering  word 
Its  wealth  of  morning  music  flung  : 
All  the  glory  and  the  gloom — 
All  the  passion  and  the  power — 
All  the  mystic  bale  and  bloom 
Of  its  high  imperial  dower. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  7 

Like  the  sole  phrenix  in  his  perfumed  nest, 

Love  reigned  within  my  heart  a  sovran  guest — 

Reigned  in  my  heart  of  hearts — the  throned  lord 

Of  its  young  life,  unquestioned  and  adored  ; 

Folding  its  fragrant  altar-gifts  in  flame 

That  made  the  summer  heavens  look  wan  and  pale, 

Forestalling  life's  fair  heritage  and  claim 

On  earthly  hope  'till  hope  waxed  cold  and  stale, 

Bankrupt  and  blighted  with  the  fond  excess 

Of  a  too  rare  and  costly  happiness, 

A  flame  that  earth's  calm  joys  too  proudly  spurned, 

And  left  but  ashes  where  its  altars  burned. 


Yet,  like  the  fabled  Greek,  superbly  bold, 

Who  on  Jove's  awful  countenance  would  gaze, 

Pining  immortal  beauty  to  behold, 

Consumed  beneath  the  lightning  of  its  rays, 

My  conscious  heart  a  willing  fate  had  sought, 

Undaunted  by  the  pangs  its  triumphs  bought ; 

Content  love's  mortal  penalties  to  share, 

And,  for  a  dream  so  sweet,  a  dreadless  doom  to  dare. 


8  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

I  trod  o'er  meads  of  asphodel, 
I  walked  the  hall  of  dreams, 

And  gathered  sweeter  flowers  than  fell 
By  Enna's  fabled  streams. 

Every  wind  of  morning  bore 
Music  from  some  haunted  shore, 
Some  fairy  island  o'er  the  seas, 
Insphered  in  orient  phantasies. 

Every  cloud  that  floated  by 
Veiled  beneath  its  silver  wing 

Missives  from  a  world  more  fair 
Than  the  Poets'  dream  of  spring. 

I  sought  the  holy  wells  of  song 
Love's  wild  enchantments  to  prolong, 
And  walked  as  in  a  waking  trance 
The  wonder-land  of  old  romance. 


Sometimes  to  a  triumph  march 
Throbbed  the  life-pulse,  warm  and  high, 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

Sometimes  tolled  in  silver  time 
To  a  haunting  melody, 
Like  a  holy  matin  bell 
Chiming  in  a  far  chapelle  : 
Now  trembling  to  a  cadence  sweet 
As  the  clear  and  silver  beat 
Of  fairy  footsteps,  or  the  fall 
Of  fountains  in  a  marble  hall, 
Now  as  to  an  echoing  horn, 
Far  through  moonlit  forests  borne, 
Sad  and  rhythmically  slow, 
Moved  to  grand  adagio. 


Dream  followed  dream  :  the  horizon  lay 

A  line  of  silver  far  away  ; 

The  trees  soared  far  into  the  blue, 

The  rose-cups  dripped  with  morning  dew, 

And  still  the  level  life-path  wound 

Away,  away,  o'er  flowery  ground. 


HOURS   OF  LIFE. 


NOON. 

"The  mysterious  silence  of  full  noon." 

BAILEY.    (Festus.) 

"  Combien  de  fois  dans  le  silence  de  minuit,  et  dans  ret  autre 
silence  de  midi,  si  accablant,  si  inquiet,  si  devorant,  n'ai-je  pas 
senti  mon  coeur  se  precipiter  vers  un  but  inconnu,  vers  un  bonheur 
sans  forme  et  sans  nom,  qui  est  au  ciel,  qui  est  dans  Tair,  qui  est 
partout,  comme  1'amour  !  Cest  1'aspiration  sainte  de  la  partie  la 
plus  e'the're'e  de  notre  ame  vers  1'inconnu." 

GEORGE  SAND.    (Lelia) 


Dream  followed  dream;  and  still  the  day 
Floated  on  golden  wings  away ; 
But  in  the  hush  of  the  high  noon, 
Touched  by  a  sorrow  without  name, 
Consumed  by  a  slow,  fever-flame, 
I  loathed  my  life's  mysterious  boon, 
Unconscious  of  its  end  or  aim  ; 


12 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


Lost  in  a  languor  of  repose — 

A  luxury  of  gloom — 
As  when  the  curved,  voluptuous  rose 

Droops  with  its  wealth  of  bloom.. 


Decked  as  for  a  festival 
Seemed  the  wide  and  lonely  hall 
Of  Nature,  but  a  mute  despair 
Filled  the  universal  air  ; — 
A  sense  of  loneliness  and  void, — 
A  wealth  of  beauty  unenjoyed, — 
A  sadness  born  mid  the  excess 
Of  life's  unvalued  loveliness. 


Every  pulse  of  being  panting 

With  a  bliss  it  fain  would  share, 

Still  there  seemed  a  presence  wanting,. 

Still  some  lost  ideal  haunting 

All  the  lone  and  lustrous  air. 


Far  off  I  heard  the  solemn  chimes 
Of  Life  and  Death— 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


The  rhythm  of  ancestral  rhymes 
Above — beneath  ! 


*'  Light  in  shadow  ever  fading — 
"  Death  on  Life's  bright  realm  invading — 
*'  Pain  with  pleasure  keeping  measure — 
*'  Wasting  care  with  golden  treasure. — 

So  the  ancient  burden  rang, 

So  the  choral  voices  sang. 


Though  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 
The  summer  noon-light  lay, 

Far  in  the  west  a  single  cloud 

Lay  folded  like  a  fleecy  shroud, 
Ready  to  veil  its  ray. 

And  over  all  a  purple  pall 
Seemed  waiting  for  the  day. 

I  heard  far,  phantom  voices  calling 
Over  all  the  flowery  wold, — 

'O'er  the  westering  meadows  falling 
Into  slopes  of  gleamy  gold  ; — 


14  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

Still  I  heard  them  calling — calling — 
Through  the  dim,  entangled  glooms — 

Far  through  sunless  valleys  falling 
Downward  to  a  place  of  tombs. 

Near  me  pressed  a  vassal  throng, 
Slaves  to  custom,  serfs  to  wrong — 
Hollow-hearted,  vain  and  cold, 
Minions  of  the  earthly  mould; 
Holding  in  supreme  derision 
Memories  of  the  life  elysian, 
Reckless  of  the  birth-right  lost, 
Heedless  of  the  heavenly  host, 
Traitors  to  the  Holy  Ghost ! 

Haunted  by  a  nameless  terror, — 
Thrilled  by  a  foreboding  breath, 
As  the  aspen  wildly  trembles 
When  the  winds  are  still  as  death, 
I  sought  amid  the  sadness  drear 
Some  loved  familiar  face  to  cheer 
The  solitude, — some  lingering  tone 
Of  love  ere  love  and  hope  had  flown. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  15 

I  heard  a  low  voice  breathe  my  name  : — 
Was  it  the  echo  of  my  own, — 
That  wierd  and  melancholy  tone, — 
That  voice  whose  subtle  sweetness  came 
Keen  as  the  serpent's  tongue  of  flame  ? 
So  near,  its  music  seemed  to  me 
The  music  of  my  heart  to  be. 

Still  I  heard  it,  nearer,  clearer, 
When  all  other  songs  had  flown, 
Floating  round  me  'till  it  bound  me 
In  a  wild  world  of  its  own. 


Suddenly  a  chill  wind  leapt 

Through  its  woven  harmonies — 

All  its  silver  chords  were  snapt 

As  a  wind-harp's  by  the  breeze. 

A  shudder  through  the  silence  crept 

And  death  athwart  the  noon-light  swept. 

Then  came  the  pall,  the  dirge,  the  knell, 
As,  dust  to  dust,  the  earth-clods  fell,, 


16  HOURS    OF   LIFE!. 

Down  crumbling  on  a  coffin  lid, 
Within  whose  narrow  casket  hid — 
Shut  from  the  cheerful  light  of  day — 
Buried,  yet  quick,  my  own  heart  lay. 


Graves  closed  round  my  path  of  life, 

The  beautiful  had  fled, 
Pale  shadows  wandered  by  my  side, 

And  whispered  of  the  dead. 
The  far  off  hollow  of  the  sky 

Seemed  like  an  idle  mockery, — 
The  vaulted  hollow  of  the  sky, 

With  its  blue  depths  of  mystery 

But  rounded  Death's  vast  empery. 


O'erwearied  with  life's  restless  change 

From  extacy  to  agony, 

Its  fleeting  pleasures  born  to  die, 

The  mirage  of  its  phantasie, 

Its  worn  and  melancholy  range 

Of  hopes  that  could  no  more  estrange 

The  married  heart  of  memory, 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  17, 

Doomed,  while  we  drain  life's  perfumed  wine,, 

For  the  dull  Lethean  wave  to  pine, 

And,  for  each  thrill  of  joy,  to  know 

Despair's  slow  pulse  or  sorrow's  throe — 

I  sought  some  central  truth  to  span 

These  wide  extremes  of  good  and  ill — 

I  longed  with  one  bold  glance  to  scan 

Life's  perfect  sphere, — to  rend  at  will 

The  gloom  of  Erebus, — dread  zone — 

Coiled  like  a  serpent  round  the  throne 

Of  Heaven, — the  realm  where  Justice  veils 

Her  heart  and  holds  her  even  scales, — 

Where  awful  Nemesis  awaits 

The  doomed,  by  Pluto's  iron  gates. 


In  the  long  noon-tide  of  my  sorrow, 

I  questioned  of  the  eternal  morrow ; 

I  gazed  in  sullen  awe 

Far  through  the  illimitable  gloom 

Down-deepening  like  the  swift  mrelstroom, 

The  doubting  soul  to  draw 


18  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

Into  eternal  solitudes, 

Where  unrelenting  silence  broods 

Around  the  throne  of  Law. 


I  questioned  the  dim  chronicle 

'Of  ages  gone  before — 

•1  listened  for  the  triumph  songs 

'That  rang  from  shore  to  shore, 

TYhere  the  heroes  and  the  conquerors  wrought 

The  mighty  deeds  of  yore — 

Where  the  foot-prints  of  the  martyrs 

Had  bathed  the  earth  in  gore, 

And  the  war-horns  of  the  warriors 

Were  heard  from  shore  to  shore. 


Their  blood  on  desert  plains  was  shed — 
Their  voices  on  the  wind  had  fled — 
They  were  the  drear  and  shadowy  DEAD  ! 


:Still,  through  the  storied  past,  I  sought 
An  answer  to  my  sleepless  thought ; 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  19 


In  the  cloisters  old  and  hoary 
Of  the  mediaeval  time — 
In  the  rude  ancestral  story 
Of  the  ancient  Runic  rhyme. 


I  paused  on  Grecian  plains,  to  trace 
Some  remnant  of  a  mightier  race, 
Serene  in  sorrow  &nd  in  strife, 
Calm  conquerors  of  Death  and  Life, 
Types  of  the  god-like  forms  that  shone 
Upon  the  sculptured  Parthenon. 


But  still,  as  when  Prometheus  bare 
From  heaven  the  fiery  dart, 
I  saw  the  "vulture  passions"  tear 
The  proud  Caucassian  heart — l 

The  war  of  destiny  with  will 

J 
Still  conquered,  yet  conflicting  still. 


I  heard  loud  Hallelujas 
From  Israeli  golden  lyre, 


20  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

And  I  sought  their  great  Jehovah 
In  the  cloud  and  in  the  fire. 

I  lingered  by  the  stream  that  flowed 

II  Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God" — 

I  bowed,  its  sacred  wave  to  sip — 

Its  waters  fled  my  thirsting  lip. 

The  serpent  trail  was  over  all 

Its  borders, — and  its  palms  that  threw 

Aloft  their  waving  coronal, 

Were  blistered  by  a  poison  dew. 


Serener  elements  I  sought, 
Sublimer  altitudes  of  thought, 
The  truth  Saint  John  and  Plato  saw, 
The  mystic  lighty  the  inward  law ; 
The  Logos  ever  found  and  lost, 
The  aureola  of  the  Ghost. 


I  hailed  its  faint  auroral  beam 

In  many  a  Poet's  delphic  dream, 

On  many  a  shrine  where  faith's  pure  flame 

Through  fable's  gorgeous  oriel  came. 


HOURS    OF    LIFR.  21 

Around  the  altars  of  the  god, 
In  holy  passion  hushed,  I  trod, 
Where  once  the  mighty  voice  of  Jove 
Rang  through  Dodona's  haunted  grove. 
No  more  the  dove  with  sable  plumes  2 
Swept  through  the  forest's  gorgeous  glooms; 
The  shrines  were  desolate  and  cold, 
Their  paeans  hushed,  their  story  told, 
In  long,  inglorious  silence  lost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  of  Penticost. 


No  more  did  music's  golden  surge 

The  mortal  in  immortal  merge  : 

High  canticles  of  joy  and  praise 

Died  with  the  dream  of  other  days  ; 

I  only  heard  the  Maenad's  wail, 

That  shriek  that  made  the  orient  pale : 

Evohe  ! — ah — evohe  ! 

The  mystic  burden  of  a  woe 

Whose  dark  enigma  none  may  know  ;3 

The  primal  curse — the  primal  throe. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


Evohe  !  —  ah  —  evohe  ! 
Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry 
Of  that  ancient  agony  ! 


Still  the  fabled  Python  bound  me — 
Still  the  serpent  coil  inwound  me — 
Still  I  heard  the  Maenad's  cry, 
Evohe  ! — ah — evohe  f 


Where  the  Nile  pours  his  sullen  wave 

Through  tombs  and  empires  of  the  grave, 

I  sought,  'mid  cenotaphs,  to  find 

The  earlier  miracles  of  mind  : 

Alas,  beside  the  funeral  urn 

How  drearily  the  death-lights  burn  ; 

Oh  dim  Denderah's  sculptured  lore 

How  sad  the  noonlight  falls, 

How  mournfully  the  west  wind  sighs 

Through  Karnak's  mouldering  halls  ! 

No  tongue  shall  tell  their  wondrous  tale-, 

No  hand  shall  lift  the  Isis  veil ; 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  23 


The  mighty  pyramids  that  rise 
So  drear  along  the  morning  skies, 
Guard  well  the  secrets  of  the  dead, 
Nor  break  the  sleep  of  ages  fled. 


Their  awful  shadow  passed,  I  stood 

On  India's  burning  solitude  ; 

Where,  in  the  misty  morning  of  the  world, 

Life  lay  as  in  a  dream  of  beauty  furled. 

I  saw  the  mighty  altars  of  the  Sun — 

Before  whose  fires  the  star-gods,  one  by  one, 

Paled  like  thin  ghosts — in  lurid  splendors  rife ; 

I  heard  the  Persian  hail  him  Lord  of  Life ! 

I  saw  his  altar-flames  rise  wild  and  high, 

Veiling  the  glory  of  the  noon-day  sky, 

Hiding  the  holy  heavens  with  their  ensanguined  dye. 


I  turned,  and  from  the  Brahmin's  milder  law 
I  sought  truth's  mystic  element  to  draw, 
Pure  as  it  sparkled  in  the  cup  of  heaven — 
The  bright  amreeta  to  the  immortals  given — 


34  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

To  bathe  my  soul  in  fontal  springs,  that  lie 
Veiled  from  the  careless  and  incurious  eye. 


Half  wakened  from  the  brooding  sleep 
Of  Nature  ere  she  felt  the  leap 
Of  sentient  life,  the  Hindoo  seemed 
Sad  as  the  faith  his  fathers  dreamed  ; 
Like  his  own  rock-hewn  temples,  wrought 
From  some  obscure  and  shadowy  thought 
Of  ancient  days — some  formless  dread, 
In  the  grey  dawn  of  ages  bred — 
Prone  on  his  native  earth  reclined, 
To  endless  reveries  resigned, 
His  dull  soul  lapsing  on  the  Lethean  stream, 
Lost  in  the  dim  world  of  a  lotus  dream. 


Still,  still  the  eternal  mystery, 
The  shadow  of  the  poison-tree 
Of  Good  and  Evil  haunted  me. 
In  Religion's  holy  name, 
Furies  fed  her  altar-flame, 
Sophists  gloried  in  her  shame. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  25 


Still  the  ancient  mythus  bound  me, 
Still  the  serpent  coil  inwound  me, 
Still  I  heard  the  Maenad's  cry, 
Evohe  ! — ah — evohe ! 


Wearied  with  man's  discordant  creed, 
I  sought  on  Nature's  page  to  read 
Life's  history,  ere  yet  she  shrined 
Her  essence  in  the  incarnate  mind ; 
Intent  her  secret  laws  to  trace 
In  primal  solitudes  of  space, 
From  her  first,  faint  atomic  throes, 
To  where  her  orbed  splendor  glows 
In  the  vast,  silent  spheres  that  roll 
Forever  towards  their  unknown  goal. 


I  turned  from  dull  alchemic  lore 

With  starry  Chaldeans  to  soar, 

And  sought,  on  fancy's  wing,  to  roam 

That  glorious  galaxy  of  light 

Where  mingling  stars  like  drifting  foam, 

Melt  on  the  solemn  shores  of  night; 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


But  still  the  surging  glory  chased 
The  dark  through  night's  chaotic  waste  ; 
And  still,  within  its  deepening  voids, 
Crumbled  the  burning  asteroids. 


Long  gloating  on  that  hollow  gloom, 
Methought  that  in  some  vast  maelstroom, 
The  stars  were  hurrying  to  their  doom, — 
Bubbles  upon  life's  boundless  sea, 
Swift  meteors  of  eternity, 
Pale  sparks  of  mystic  fire,  that  fall 
From  God's  unwaning  coronal. 


Is  there,  I  asked,  a  living  woe 

In  all  those  burning  orbs  that  glow 

Through  the  blue  ether? — do  they  share 

Our  dim  world's  anguish  and  despair — 

In  their  vast  orbits  do  they  fly 

From  some  avenging  destiny — 

And  shall  their  wild  eyes  pale  beneath 

The  dread  anathema  of  Death? 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  27 

Our  own  fair  earth — shall  she  too  drift, 

Forever  shrouded  in  a  weft 

Of  stormy  clouds,  that  surge  and  swirl 

Around  her  in  her  dizzy  whirl  : — 

Forever  shall  a  shadow  fall 

Backward  from  her  golden  wall, 

Its  dark  cone  stretching,  ghast  and  grey, 

Into  outer  glooms  away  ? — 


From  the  sad,  unsated  quest 

Of  knowledge,  how  I  longed  to  rest 

On  her  green  and  silent  breast ! 


I  languished  for  the  dews  of  death 
My  fevered  heart  to  steep, 

The  heavy,  honey-dews  of  death, 
The  calm  and  dreamless  sleep. 

I  left  my  fruitless  lore  apart, 
And  leaned  my  ear  on  Nature's  heart, 
To  hear,  far  from  life's  busy  throng, 
The  chime  of  her  sweet  undersong. 


28  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

She  pressed  her  balmy  lips  to  mine, 
She  bathed  me  in  her  sylvan  springs ; 
And  still,  by  many  a  rural  shrine, 
She  taught  me  sweet  and  holy  things. 
I  felt  her  breath  my  temples  fan, 
I  learned  her  temperate  laws  to  scan, 
My  soul,  of  hers,  became  a  conscious  part ; 
Her  beauty  melted  through  my  inmost  heart. 


Still  I  languished  for  the  word 
Her  sweet  lips  had  never  spoken, 
Still,  from  the  pale  shadow-land, 
There  came  nor  voice  nor  token ; 
No  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Whispered  of  the  loved  and  lost  ; 
No  bright  wanderer  came  to  tell 
If,  in  worlds  beyond  the  grave, 
Life,  love,  and  beauty  dwell. 


HOURS   OF   LIFE. 


EVENING. 

And,  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  at  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

ZACHARIAU  xiv.  vii. 

"  All  the  dawn  promised  shall  the  day  fulfil, 
The  glory  and  the  grandeur  of  each  dream; 
And  every  prophecy  shall  be  achieved, 
And  every  joy  conceded,  prove  a  pledge 
Of  some  new  joy  to  come." 

ROBERT  BROWXING.    (Paracelsus.) 

Wilder  and  lonelier  grew  the  day  : 
The  vault  of  heaven  once  so  high — 
Fading  to  infinity — 

Now  bowed  by  its  own  weight  of  gloom, 
Seemed  dark  and  low-browed  as  a  tomb. 
Cold,  sculptured  hills,  forlorn  and  grey, 
Like  sun-forsaken  Memnons,  lay 
Around  my  drear  and  pathless  way. 
The  thunder  rolled  ;   and  loud  and  shrill, 
The  storm-blast  shrieked  from  hill  to  hill. 


30 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

Beside  the  lamp  within  the  veil 

Of  the  soul's  temple  burning  pale, 

I  sought,  in  self-renouncing  prayer, 

Truth's  guarded  secrets  to  forbear, 

'Till  lowly  trust  the  right  should  earn 

Life's  golden  meanings  to  discern. 

I  sought  in  ministries  of  love 

The  purchase  of  the  Cross  to  prove — 

The  mysteries  of  the  Holy  Rood 

In  sorrow's  pale  beatitude. 

Content,  through  lowering  clouds,  to  greet 

The  glory  of  the  Paraclete ; 

I  sought,  within  the  inner  shrine, 

The  Father-God  of  Palestine. 


A  holy  light  began  to  stream 
Athwart  the  cloud-rifts,  like  a  dream 
Of  heaven ;  and  lo !  a  pale,  sweet  face, 
Of  mournful  grandeur  and  imperial  grace — 
A  face  whose  mystic  sadness  seemed  to  borrow 
Immortal  beauty  from  that  mortal  sorrow — 
Looked  on  me ;  and  a  voice  of  solemn  cheer 
Uttered  its  sweet  evangels  on  my  ear  ; 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

The  open  secrets  of  that  eldest  lore 
That  seems  less  to  reveal  than  to  restore. 

"  Pluck  thou  the  Life-tree's  golden  fruit, 
Nor  seek  to  bare  its  sacred  root : 
Live,  and  in  life's  perennial  faith 
Renounce  the  heresy  of  death  : 
Believe,  and  every  sweet  accord 
Of  being,  to  thine  ear  restored, 
Shall  sound  articulate  and  clear; 
Perfected  love  shall  banish  fear, 
Knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  approve 
The  divine  synthesis  of  love." 

'*  Royally  the  lilies  grow 
On  the  grassy  leas, 
Basking  in  the  sun  and  dew, 
Swinging  in  the  breeze. 
Doth  the  wild-fowl  need  a  chart 
Through  the  illimitable  air  ? 
Heaven  lies  folded  in  thy  heart; 
Seek  the  truth  that  slumbers  there ; 
Thou  art  Truth's  eternal  heir." 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

'*  Let  the  shadows  come  and  go  ; 

Let  the  stormy  north  wind  blow  : 

Death's  dark  valley  cannot  bind  thee 

In  its  dread  abode  ; 

There  the  Morning  Star  shall  find  thee, 

There  the  living  God. 

Sin  and  sorrow  cannot  hide  thee — 

Death  and  hell  cannot  divide  thee 

From  the  love  of  God." 


In  the  mystic  agony 

On  the  Mount  of  Calvary, 

The  Saviour  with  his  dying  eyes 

Beheld  the  groves  of  Paradise. 

* 

"  Then  weep  not  by  the  charnel  stone 
Nor  veil  thine  eyelids  from  the  sun. 
Upward,  through  the  death-dark  glides. 
The  spirit  on  resurgent  tides 
Of  light  and  glory  on  its  way : 
Wilt  thou  by  the  cerements  stay  ?— 
Thou  the  risen  Christ  shalt  see 
In  redeemed  Humanity. 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  33 

Though  mourners  at  the  portal  wept, 
And  angels  lingered  where  it  slept, 
The  soul  but  tarried  for  a  night, 
Then  plumed  its  wings  for  loftier  flight." 


"  Is  thy  heart  so  lonely  ? — Lo, 

Ready  to  share  thy  joy  and  woe, 

Poor  wanderers  tarry  at  thy  gate, 

The  way-worn  and  the  desolate, 

And  angels  at  thy  threshhold  wait : 

Would'st  thou  love's  holiest  guerdon  win — 

Arise,  and  let  the  stranger  in." 


"  The  friend  whom  not  thy  fickle  will, 

But  the  deep  heart  within  thee,  still 

Yearneth  to  fold  to  its  embrace, 

Shall  seek  thee  through  the  realms  of  space. 

Keep  the  image  Nature  sealed 

On  thy  heart,  by  love  annealed, 

Keep  thy  faith  serene  and  pure ; 

Her  royal  promises  are  sure, 

Her  sweet  betrothals  shall  endure." 

i 


34  HOURS    OP    LIFE. 

"  Hope  thou  all  things  and  believe  ; 
And,  in  child-like  trust,  achieve 
The  simplest  mandates  of  the  soul, 
The  simplest  good,  the  nearest  goal  -T 
Move  but  the  waters  and  their  pulse 
The  broad  ocean  shall  convulse." 


"  When  love  shall  reconcile  the  will 
Love's  mystic  sorrow  to  fulfil, 
Its  fiery  baptism  to  share, — 
The  burden  of  its  cross  to  bear, — 
Earth  shall  to  equilibrium  tend, 
Ellipses  shall  to  circles  bend, 
And  life's  long  agony  shall  end." 


11  Then  pluck  the  Life-tree's  golden  fruit, 
No  blight  can  reach  its  sacred  root. 
E'en  though  every  blossom  fell 
Into  Hades,  one  by  one, 
Love  is  deeper  far  than  Hell — 
Shadows  cannot  quench  the  sun." 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  35 

"  Can  the  child-heart  promise  more 

Than  the  Father  hath  in  store  ? — 

The  blind  shall  see — the  dead  shall  live ; 

Can  the  man-child  forfeit  more 

Than  the  Father  can  forgive  ? 

The  Dragon,  from  his  empire  driven, 

No  more  shall  find  his  place  in  Heaven, 

'Till  e'en  the  Serpent  power  approve 

The  divine  potency  of  love." 


'*  Guard  thy  faith  with  holy  care, — 
Mystic  virtues  slumber  there  ; 
'Tis  the  lamp  within  the  soul 
Holding  genii  in  control : 
Faith  shall  walk  the  stormy  water — 
In  the  unequal  strife  prevail — 
Nor,  when  comes  the  dread  avatar 
From  its  fiery  splendors  quail. 
Faith  shall  triumph  o'er  the  grave, 
Love  shall  bless  the  life  it  gave." 


36 


HOURS    OF    LIFE. 


I  heard ;  and  in  my  heart  the  incarnate  Word 
Uttered,  serene  and  clear,  its  sweet  accord — 
To  Him  that  sitteth  on  the  eternal  throne 
All  power  and  grace  earth's  discord  to  atone — 
To  the  great  Soul  that  foldeth  all  in  one, 
Father  in  Heaven,  I  cried,  thy  will  be  done. 

Then  faintly,  with  my  heart's  low  music  blending, 
I  heard  a  sound  of  silver  wings  descending — 
The  Holy  Dove  of  Peace — the  promised  guest, 
Folded  its  fragrant  pinions  on  my  breast. 

Life  into  lines  of  beauty  flowed 
Around  me,  flexuous  and  free, 
The  passive  face  of  Nature  showed 
A  sweet,  responsive  sympathy, 
And  dimly,  through  the  Human,  glowed 
The  lineaments  of  Deity. 
• 

I  saw  the  frowning  orbs  of  Fate 

Into  a  regent  calm  dilate — 

A  sovran  and  superb  disdain 

Of  earth's  fast-fleeting  joy  and  pain  j 


HOURS    OF    LIFE.  37 

While  patience  budding  into  peace, 
And  knowledge  ripening  into  power, 
And  thought,  with  its  pale  alchymy, 
Made  beautiful  the  passing  hour ; 
'Till  morn  and  noon-light  seemed  to  fuse 
Their  glory  with  its  fading  hues, 
As  the  fair  outline  of  my  day, 
From  dawn  to  twilight's  golden  grey, 
Rose  grandly  on  the  prescient  soul, 
Crowned  with  the  sunset's  aureole. 


Far  off,  among  the  norland  hills, 

The  distant  thunders  rolled — 

Soft  rain-clouds  dipped  their  fringes  down 

Across  the  evening  gold. 

Heaven's  stormy  dome  was  rent,  and  high 

Above  me  shone  the  summer  sky  ; 

Ever  more  serene  it  grew, 

Fading  off  into  the  blue, 

'Till  the  boundless  hyaline 

Seemed  melting  into  depths  divine, 

And  the  angels  came  and  went 

Through  the  opening  firmament. 


38  HOURS    OF    LIFE. 

In  all  the  glooming  hollows  lay 
A  light  more  beautiful  than  day  ; 
All  the  blossom  bells  waved  slowly 
In  the  evening's  golden  calm, 
And  the  hum  of  distant  voices 
Sounded  like  a  vesper  psalm. 

'Till  dimly  seen,  through  day's  departing  bloom, 
The  far-off  lamps  of  heaven  began  to  fling 
Their  trembling  beams  athwart  the  dewy  gloom, 
As  Evening,  on  the  horizon's  airy  ring, 
Winnowing  the  darkness  with  her  silver  wing, 
Descended  like  an  angel,  calm  and  still. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.    Page  19. 

Gustav  Klemm  in  a  work  entitled  Algemeine  Cidturgeschickte  der 
Menscheit,  divides  the  human  races  into  the  active  and  passive : 
the  former,  (embracing  only  the  so-called  Caucassian  race,)  marked 
by  restless  activity  and  aspiration,  progress  and  the  spirit  of  doubt 
and  enquiry,  the  latter,  (comprising  all  the  remaining  races,)  by  an 
absence  or  inferiority  of  these  characteristics. 

Note  2.    Page  21. 

"  The  priestesses  of  Dodona  assert  that  two  black  pigeons  new 
from  Thebes  in  Egypt;  one  of  which  settled  in  Lybia,  the  other 
among  themselves :  which  latter,  resting  on  a  beech-tree  declared 
with  a  human  voice  that  here  was  to  be  the  oracle  of  Jove."— 
Herodotus.  Book  II,  ch.  55. 

Note  3.    Page  21. 

"The  Maenads,  in  their  wild  incantations,  carried  serpents  in  their 
hands,  and  with  frantic  gestures,  cried  out  Eva!  Eva!  Ephiphanius 
thinks  that  this  invocation  related  to  the  mother  of  mankind;  but 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  the  word  Epha  or  Opha,  ren 
dered  by  the  Greeks,  Ophis,  a  serpent.  I  take  Abaddon  to  have 
been  the  name  of  the  same  ophite  God  whose  worship  has  so  long 
infected  the  world.  The  learned  Heinsius  makes  Abaddon  the 
same  as  the  serpent  Python." — Jacob  Bryant's  Analysis  of  Ancient 
Mythology. 

"  While  Maenads  cry  aloud  Evoe,  Evoe! 
That  voice  that.is  contagion  to  the  world." 

Shettey's  Prometheus. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


i 


Memory  shall  stain  the  warp 

In  night-shade  wet  with  twilight  dew; 
Hope,  with  streaks  of  morning  gold, 

Strike  the  fabric  through  and  through. 


/-. 


43 


THE   GOLDEN   BALL. 

A    TALE    OF    FAEEIE. 


"  In  olden  dayes 

All  was  the  land  fulfilled  of  Faerie— 
The  Elf  Queen,  with  her  jollie  companie, 
Danced  full  oft  in  many  a  grassy  mede. 
This  was  the  old  opinion,  as  I  rede. — 
I  speak  of  many  hundred  years  ago — 
But  now  can  no  man  see  the  Elve's  mo." 

CHAUCER. 

In  the  hushed  and  silken  chamber 
Of  my  childhood,  Eleanore, 

When  the  day-light's  dying  amber 
Faded  on  the  dusky  floor ; 


When  the  village  bells  were  ringing 
At  the  hour  of  evening  prayer, 

And  the  little  birds  were  winging 
Homeward,  through  the  dewy  air ; 


44  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Wooing  me  to  twilight  slumbers, 
In  that  soft  and  balmy  clime, 

Often  have  I  heard  the  numbers 
Of  the  ancient  fairy-rhyme ;— - 


Listened  to  the  mythic  stories 

Taught  when  fancy's  charmed  sway 

Filled  with  visionary  glories 
All  my  childhood's  golden  day. 


In  the  dull  and  drear  December, 
Sitting  by  the  hearth-light's  gleam, 

Often  do  I  still  remember 

Tales  that  haunt  me  like  a  dream. 


Often  I  recall  the  story 

Of  the  outcast  child,  forlorn, 

Doomed  to  roam  in  forest  hoary, 
From  the  step-dame's  cruel  scorn. 


THE    GOLDEN    BALL.  45 

Long  she  wandered,  sad  and  lonely, 

Till  the  daylight's  dying  bloom 
Left  one  silver  planet  only 

Trembling  through  the  twilight  gloom. 


Orphaned  in  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Chased  by  savage  beawts  of  prey, 

Doomed,  from  frantic  fears,  to  borrow 
Strength  to  bear  her  on  her  way. 


Still  she  wandered,  faint  and  weary, 
Through  the  forest,  wild  and  wide, 

Till  her  thoughts  grew  dark  and  dreary, 
And  her  heart  with  terror  died. 


When  a  gracious  fairy,  wandering 
Forth  to  greet  the  evening  star, 

Found  her  near  a  torrent,  pondering 
How  to  pass  its  watery  bar. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Tenderly  the  gentle  stranger 
Led  her  to  the  foaming  fall ; 

There,  to  guide  her  feet  from  danger, 
Down  she  flung  a  Golden  Ball. 


Shrined  within  its  charmed  hollow, 
Many  a  mystic  virtue  lay  ; — 

Safely  might  her  footsteps  follow 
Wheresoe'er  it  led  the  way. 


Throbbed  her  heart  with  fear  and  wonder, 

As  the  magic  globe  of  gold 
Onward  through  the  rushing  thunder 

Of  the  stormy  torrent  rolled  : 


On,  where  boundless  forests,  burning-, 
Scorched  the  air  and  scathed  the  sight, 

From  earth's  livid  features  turning 
Back  the  solemn  pall  of  night : 


THE    GOLDEN    BALL.  47 

Still  on  golden  axis  rolling, 

Onward,  onward  still  it  sped — 
Still  the  maid,  her  fears  controlling, 

Fleetly  following  as  it  fled  : 


While  the  raging  waters  bore  her 
Safely  o'er  their  hollow  way, 

And  the  flame-lights  flashing  o'er  her 
Paled  like  stars  at  break  of  day — 


Paled  before  her  virgin  honor — 
Paled  before  her  love  and  truth ; 

Savage  natures  gazing  on  her, 
Turned  to  pity  and  to  ruth. 


So  she  passed  through  flood  and  forest- 
Passed  the  ogre's  yawning  gate, 

And  when  danger  threatened  sorest, 
Calmly  trod  the  path  of  fate. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Till  the  night  that  seemed  so  dreary. 

Grew  more  beautiful  than  day  ; 
And  her  little  feet,  so  weary, 

Glided  gently  on  their  way — 


Glided  o'er  the  grassy  meadows 

Steeped  in  perfume,  starred  with  dew, 

Glided  'neath  the  forest  shadows 
Till  the  moonlight  slanting  through, 


Gleamed  athwart  a  fountain  sleeping 
Calmly  in  its  hollow  cells, 

Where  were  little  fishes  leaping 
All  about  the  lily-bells. 


Soon  the  lilies  seemed  to  shiver, 
And  a  tremor  shook  the  air — 

Curdled  all  the  sleeping  river- 
Woke  the  thunder  in  its  lair ! 


THE    GOLDEN    BALL. 

Lo  !  a  fish  from  out  the  water 
Rising,  oped  its  rosy  gills ; — 

'Twas  the  gracious  fairy's  daughter, 
And  the  air  with  music  thrills, 


As  a  sudden  glory,  bending 

O'er  the  fountain's  mystic  gleam,. 

Changed  her  to  a  form  transcending 
Fantasy's  divinest  dream. 


Water  blooms,  with  olive  twining, 
Crowned  a  brow  serenely  sweet, 

Robes,  like  woven  lilies  shining, 
Flowed  in  folds  about  her  feet. 


With  a  look  of  soft  imploring, 
Thus  she  spoke,  in  rippling  tones, 

Sweet  as  summer  waters,  pouring 
Over  reeds  and  pebble-stones: — • 
5 


50  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  Thou  hast  conquered,  little  stranger  ! 

All  thy  bitter  trials  past, 
Safe,  through  sorrow  and  through  danger, 

Thou  hast  won  the  goal  at  last. 


Lift  me  from  the  silent  water — 
Let  me  on  thy  bosom  lie, 

For  I  am  a  fairy's  daughter 
Thralled  by  cruel  sorcery. 


"  Doomed,  beneath  the  wave,  forever 
Like  the  virgin  Truth,  to  dwell, 

Till  a  mortal  hand  shall  sever, 
Link  by  link,  the  charmed  spell. 

iivflii  a'HlWi 

Till  a  faithful  heart  shall  fold  me 
To  its  home  of  truth  and  love  : — 

So  the  ancient  Fates  have  told  me, 
And  the  answering  stars  approve. 


THE    GOLDEN    BALL.  51 

"  Lift  me,  then,  from  out  the  river, 
Now  my  charmed  life  doth  cease — 

Henceforth  I  am  thine  forever, 

Guard  me  ;  for  my  name  is  Peace." 


Thus,  dear  child,  the  mythic  story 
Chimes  to  truth's  unerring  strain, 

As  the  moon,  in  softened  glory, 
Sings  the  day-star's  sweet  refrain. 


Thus,  though  step-dame  Nature  chide  thee, 
And  the  snares  of  passion  thrall, 

Unto  heavenly  Peace  shall  guide  thee 
FAITH'S  unerring  GOLDEN  BALL. 

sX 


MOONRISE   IN    MAY. 


Long  lights  gleam  o'er  the  western  wold 
Kindling  the  brown  moss  into  gold — 
The  bright  day  fades  into  the  blue 
Of  the  far  hollows,  dim  with  dew — 
The  breeze  comes  laden  with  perfume 
From  many  an  orchard  white  with  bloom, 
And  all  the  mellow  air  is  fraught 
With  beauty  beyond  Fancy's  thought. 


Outspread  beneath  me,  breathing  balm 
Into  the  evening's  golden  calm, 
Lie  trellised  gardens,  thickly  sown 
With  nodding  lilacs,  newly  blown, 


MOONRISE    IN    MAY.  53 

Borders  with  hyacinthus  plumed, 

And  beds  with  purple  pansies  gloomed ; 

Cold  snow-drops,  jonquils  pale  and  prim, 

And  flamy  tulips,  burning  dim 

In  the  cool  twilight,  till  they  fold 

In  sleep  their  oriflammes  of  gold. 


With  many  a  glimmering  interchange 
Of  moss  and  flowers  and  terraced  range, 
The  pleasant  garden  slopes  away 
Into  the  gloom  of  shadows  grey, 
Where,  darkly  green,  the  churchyard  lies 
With  all  its  silent  memories  : 
There  the  first  violets  love  to  blow 
About  the  head-stones,  leaning  low  ; 
There,  from  the  golden  willows,  swing 
The  first  green  garlands  of  the  spring, 
And  the  first  blue  bird  builds  her  nest 
By  the  old  belfry's  umbered  crest. 


Beyond,  where  groups  of  stately  trees 
Waiting  their  vernal  draperies, 


54  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Stand  outlined  on  the  evening  sky, 
The  golden  lakes  of  sunset  lie  ; 
With  many-colored  isles  of  light, 
Purple  and  pearl  and  crysolite, 
And  realms  of  cloud-land,  floating  far 
Beyond  the  horizon's  dusky  bar, 
Now,  fading  from  the  lurid  bloom 
Of  twilight  to  a  silver  gloom, 
As  the  fair  moon's  ascending  beam 
Melts  all  things  to  a  holy  dream. 


So  fade  the  cloud-wreaths  from  my  soul 

Beneath  thy  solemn,  soft  control, 

Enchantress  of  the  stormy  seas, 

Priestess  of  Night's  high  mysteries ! 

Thy  ray  can  pale  the  norths-light's  plume, 

And,  where  the  throbbing  stars  illume 

With  their  far-palpitating  light 

The  holy  cloisters  of  the  night, 

Thy  presence  can  entrance  their  beams, 

And  lull  them  to  diviner  dreams. 


MOONRISE    IN    MAY.  55 

To  thee  belong  the  silent  spheres 
Of  memory, — the  enchanted  years 
Of  the  dead  Past, — the  shrouded  woes 
That  sleep  in  sculptural  repose. 

. 


Thy  solemn  light  doth  interfuse 

The  magic  world  wherein  I  muse, 

With  something  too  divinely  fair 

For  earthly  hope  to  harbor  there  ; — 

A  faith  that  reconciles  the  will 

Life's  mystic  sorrow  to  fulfil — 

A  benison  of  love  that  falls 

From  the  serene  and  silent  halls 

Of  night,  till  through  the  lonely  room 

A  heavenly  odor  seems  to  bloom, 

And  lilies  of  eternal  peace 

Glow  through  the  moonlight's  golden  fleece. 


56 


THE   TRAILING    ARBUTUS. 


There's  a  flower  that  grows  by  the  greenwood  tree, 

In  its  desolate  beauty  more  dear  to  me, 

Than  all  that  bask  in  the  noontide  beam 

Through  the  long,  bright  summer  by  fount  and  stream. 

Like  a  pure  hope,  nursed  beneath  sorrow's  wing, 

Its  timid  buds  from  the  cold  moss  spring, 

Their  delicate  hues  like  the  pink  sea-shell, 

Or  the  shaded  blush  of  the  hyacinth's  bell, 

Their  breath  more  sweet  than  the  faint  perfume 

That  breathes  from  the  bridal  orange-bloom. 


THE    TRAILING    ARBUTUS.  57 

It  is  not  found  by  the  garden  wall, 

It  wreaths  no  brow  in  the  festal  hall, 

But  it  dwells  in  the  depths  of  the  shadowy  wood, 

And  shines,  like  a  star,  in  the  solitude. 

Never  did  numbers  its  name  prolong, 

Ne'er  hath  it  floated  on  wings  of  song, 

Bard  and  minstrel  have  passed  it  by, 

And  left  it,  in  silence  and  shade,  to  die. 

But  with  joy  to  its  cradle  the  wild-bees  come, 

And  praise  its  beauty  with  drony  hum, 

And  children  love,  in  the  season  of  spring, 

To  watch  for  its  earliest  blossoming. 


In  the  dewy  morn  of  an  April  day, 

When  the  traveler  lingers  along  the  way, 

When  the  sod  is  sprinkled  with  tender  green 

Where  rivulets  water  the  earth,  unseen, 

When  the  floating  fringe  on  the  maple's  crest 

Rivals  the  tulip's  crimson  vest, 

And  the  budding  leaves  of  the  birch-trees  throw 

A  trembling  shade  on  the  turf  below, 

When  my  flower  awakes  from  its  dreamy  rest 

And  yields  its  lips  to  the  sweet  south-west, 


58  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then,  in  those  beautiful  days  of  spring, 
With  hearts  as  light  as  the  wild-bird's  wing, 
Flinging  their  tasks  and  their  toys  aside, 
Gay  little  groups  through  the  wood-paths  glide, 
Peeping  and  peering  among  the  trees 
As  they  scent  its  breath  on  the  passing  breeze, 
Hunting  about,  among  lichens  grey, 
And  the  tangled  mosses  beside  the  way, 
Till  they  catch  the  glance  of  its  quiet  eye, 
Like  light  that  breaks  through  a  cloudy  sky. 


Fpr  me,  sweet  blossom,  thy  tendrils  cling 
Round  my  heart  of  hearts,  as  in  childhood's  spring, 
And  thy  breath,  as  it  floats  on  the  wandering  air, 
Wakes  all  the  music  of  memory  there. 
Thou  recallest  the  time  when,  a  fearless  child, 
I  roved  all  day  through  the  wood-walks  wild, 
Seeking  thy  blossoms  by  bank  and  brae 
Wherever  the  snow-drifts  had  melted  away. 


Now  as  I  linger,  mid  crowds  alone, 
Haunted  by  echoes  of  music  flown, 


THE    TRAILING    ARBUTUS. 


When  the  shadows  deepen  around  my  way 
And  the  light  of  reason  but  leads  astray, 
When  affections,  nurtured  with  fondest  care 
In  the  trusting  heart,  become  traitors  there,. 
When,  weary  of  all  that  the  world  bestows, 
I  turn  to  nature  for  calm  repose, 
How  fain  my  spirit,  in  some  far  glen, 
Would  fold  her  wings,  mid  thy  flowers  again ! 


60 


A    STILL   DAY    IN    AUTUMN. 


I  love  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoary, 
In  the  soft  gloom  of  an  autumnal  day, 

When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of  glory 
And,  like  a  dream  of  beauty,  glides  away. 


How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path  she  lingers, 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist, 

Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy  ringers, 
Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst, — 


Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,  shining 

To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  mouldering  halls, 

With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwining, 

Where,  o'er  the  rock,  her  withered  garland  falls. 


A    STILL    DAY    IN    AUTUMN.  61 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  waning 
Beneath  dark  clouds  along  the  horizon  rolled, 

Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their  fringes  raining, 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 


The  moist  winds  breathe  of  crisped  leaves  and  flowers, 
In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown, 

Mingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  showers 
With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 


i 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered  meadow, 

Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  faded  ground, 
With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow, 
The  gentian  nods,  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 


Upon  those  soft,  fring'd  lids  the  bee  sits  brooding 
Like  a  fond  lover  loth  to  say  farewell ; 

Or,  with  shut  wings,  through  silken  folds  intruding, 
Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale  to  tell. 


62  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hillside  lonely, 
Flit  noislessly  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Silent  as  a  sweet,  wandering  thought,  that  only 
Shows  its  bright  wings  and  softly  glides  away. 


The  scentless  flowers,  in  the  warm  sunlight  dreaming3 
Forget  to  breathe  their  fulness  of  delight, — 

And  through  the  tranced  woods  soft  airs  are  streaming, 
Still  as  the  dew-fall  of  the  summer  night. 


So,  in  my  heart,  a  sweet,  unwonted  feeling 
Stirs,  like  the  wind  in  ocean's  hollow  shell, 

Through  all  its  secret  chambers  sadly  stealing, 
Yet  finds  no  words  its  mystic  charm  to  tell 


G3 


TO   THE    ANGEL    OF   DEATH. 


Thou  ancient  Mystery  !  thy  solemn  night — 
Pierced  by  attempered  rays  from  that  far  realm 

That  lies  beyond,  dark  with  excess  of  light — 
No  more  the  shuddering  spirit  shall  o'erwhelm. 


No  more  thy  charnel  glooms  the  soul  appal, 
Pale  Azrael !  awful  eidolon  of  Death  ! — 

The  dawn-light  breaks  athwart  thy  glimmering  hall, 
And  thy  dank  vapors  own  the  morning's  breath. 


Too  long  the  terror  of  the  dread  unknown 

Hath  the  wrung  heart  with  hopeless  anguish  riven ; 

The  blasting  splendors  of  the  fiery  throne 

"Burning  within  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven—" 


64  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  gloom  of  that  great  glory,  which  of  old 
Haunted  the  vision  of  the  prophet's  dream, 

When  the  archangel  of  the  Lord  foretold 

The  day  of  doom,  by  dark  Hiddekel's  stream. 


In  vain,  through  lingering  years,  I  turned  the  page 
Rich  with  these  sacred  records  of  the  past, 

Hope  languished,  and  no  legend  could  assuage 
The  rayless  gloom  thy  awful  shadow,  cast. 


In  dread  apocalypse,  I  saw  thee  borne 

On  the  pale  steed,  triumphant  o'er  the  doomed, 

Till  the  rent  Heavens  like  a  scroll  were  torn, 
And  hollow  earth  her  hundred  isles  entombed. 


In  vain  I  questioned  the  cold  stars  and  kept 
Lone  vigils  by  the  grave  of  buried  love, 

No  angel  wing  athwart  the  darkness  swept, 
No  voice  vouchsafed  my  sorrow  to  reprove. 


TO   THE    ANGEL    OF    DEATH.  65 

•V 

Was  it  the  weight  of  that  remorseless  woe, 
The  lonely  anguish  of  that  long  despair — 

That  made  thy  marble  lips  at  length  forego 
Their  silence  at  my  soul's  unceasing  prayer  ? 


Henceforth,  the  sorrowing  heart  its  pulse  shall  still 
To  solemn  cadences  of  sweet  repose, 

Content  life's  mystic  passion  to  fulfil 

In  the  great  calm  that  from  thy  promise  flows. 


Welcome  as  the  white  feet  of  those  who  bring 
Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  unto  the  world, 

Shall  fall  the  shadow  of  thy  silver  wing 
Over  the  weary  couch  of  woe  unfurled. 


A  heavenly  halo  kindles  round  thy  brow ; 

Beyond,  the  palms  of  Eden  softly  wave, 
Bright  messengers  athwart  the  empyrean  go, 

And  love,  to  love,  makes  answer  o'er  the  grave. 
6 


66 


"THE   RAVEN.' 


RAVEN,  from  the  dim  dominions 
On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore, 

Oft  I  hear  thy  dusky  pinions 

Wave  and  flutter  round  my  door — 

See  the  shadow  of  thy  pinions 
Float  along  the  moon-lit  floor ; 


Often,  from  the  oak-woods  glooming 
Round  some  grim,  ancestral  tower, 

In  the  lurid  distance  looming — 
Some  high,  solitary  tower — 

I  can  hear  thy  storm-cry  booming 
Through  the  lonely  midnight  hour. 


"THE  RAVEN."  67 

When  the  moon  is  at  the  zenith, 
Thou  dost  haunt  the  moated  hall, 

Where  the  marish  flower  greeneth 
O'er  the  waters,  like  a  pall — 

Where  the  House  of  Usher  leaneth, 
Darkly  nodding  to  its  fall  : 


There  I  see  thee,  dimly  gliding — 
See  thy  black  plumes  waving  slow — 

In  its  hollow  casements  hiding, 
When  their  shadow  yawns  below, 

To  the  sullen  tarn  confiding 
The  dark  secrets  of  their  woe. 


When  the  midnight  stars  are  burning 
In  their  cressets,  silver  clear, — 

When  Ligea's  spirit  yearning 

For  the  earth-life,  wanders  near, — 

When  Morella's  soul  returning, 
Wierdly  whispers  "I  am  here" — 


69  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then,  all  night,  I  see  thee  wheeling 
Round  a  couch  of  India's  loom, 

Where  a  shrouded  form,  congealing 
In  the  cerements  of  the  tomb, 

Sleeps  beneath  the  vaulted  ceiling 
Of  Rowena's  bridal  room. 


Once,  within  a  realm  enchanted, 

On  a  far  isle  of  the  seas, 
By  unearthly  visions  haunted, 

By  unearthly  melodies, 
Where  the  evening  sunlight  slanted 

Golden  through  the  garden  trees, — 


Where  the  dreamy  moonlight  dozes, 
Where  the  early  violets  dwell, 

Listening  to  the  silver  closes 
Of  a  lyric  loved  too  well, 

Suddenly,  among  the  roses, 
Like  a  cloud,  thy  shadow  fell. 


*'  THE    RAVEN."  69 

Once,  where  Ulalume  lies  sleeping, 

Hard  by  Auber's  haunted  mere, 
With  the  ghouls  a  vigil  keeping, 

On  that  night  of  all  the  year, 
Came  thy  sounding  pinions,  sweeping 

Through  the  leafless  woods  of  Weir ! 


Oft,  with  Proserpine  I  wander 
On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore, 

Hoping,  fearing,  while  I  ponder 
On  thy  loved  and  lost  Lenore — 

On  the  demon  doubts  that  sunder 
Soul  from  soul  forever  more  ; — 


Trusting,  though  with  sorrow  laden, 
That  when  life's  dark  dream  is  o'er, 

By  whatever  name  the  maiden 
Lives  within  thy  mystic  lore, 

Eiros,  in  that  distant  Aidenn, 

Shall  his  Charmion  meet  once  more. 


70 


A    NIGHT   IN   AUGUST. 


"And  thenceforth  all  that  once  was  fair, 
Grew  fairer." 

How  softly  comes  the  Summer  wind 

At  evening  o'er  the  hill, 
Forever  murmuring  of  thee 

When  busy  crowds  are  still  : 
The  way-side  flowers  seem  to  guess 

And  whisper  of  my  happiness. 


The  jasmine  twines  her  snowy  stars 

Into  a  fairer  wreath  ; 
The  lily  lifts  her  proud  tiars 

More  royally  beneath ; 
The  snow-drop  with  her  fairy  bells, 
In  silver  time,  the  story  tells. 


A    NIGHT    IN    AUGUST.  71 

Through  all  the  dusk  and  dewy  hours, 

The  banded  stars  above, 
Are  singing,  in  their  airy  towers, 

The  melodies  of  love  ; 
And  clouds  of  shadowy  silver  fly 
All  night,  like  doves,  athwart  the  sky. 


Fair  Dian  lulls  the  throbbing  stars 

Into  elysian  dreams  ; 
And,  rippling  through  my  lattice  bars, 

Her  brooding  glory  streams 
Around  me,  like  the  golden  shower 
That  rained  through  Danae's  guarded  tower. 


And  when  the  waning  moon  doth  glide 

Into  the  valleys  grey, 
When,  like  the  music  of  a  dream, 

The  night  wind  dies  away, 
When  all  the  way-side  flowers  have  furled 
Their  wings,  with  morning  dews  impearled, 


72  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

A  low,  bewildering  melody 

Seems  murmuring  in  my  ear — 

Tones  such  as  in  the  twilight  wood, 
The  aspen  thrills  to  hear, 

When  Faunus  slumbers  on  the  hill, 

And  all  the  entranced  boughs  are  still. 


73 


MORNING. 

TEOM  "THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY.'* 


And  now  the  kindling  sunbeams  threw 
Their  level  light  athwart  the  dew, 

And  tipt  the  hills  with  flame  : 
And  all  the  forest  boughs  were  stirred 
With  music,  as  from  bee  and  bird, 

A  mingling  murmur  came. 


From  out  its  depths  of  tangled  gloom,. 
There  swept  a  breath  of  dewy  bloom ;, 

And,  from  the  valleys  dim, 
A  cloud  of  fragrant  incense  stole, 
As  if  each  violet  breathed  its  soul 

Into  that  floral  hymn. 


74  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Loud  neighed  the  steed  within  his  stall, 
The  cock  crowed  on  the  castle  wall, 

The  warder  wound  his  horn  ; 
The  linnet  sang  in  leafy  bower, 
The  swallows,  twittering  from  the  tower, 

Chirped  to  the  rosy  morn. 


But  fresher  than  the  rosy  morn, 
And  blither  than  the  bugle  horn, 

The  maiden's  heart  doth  prove, 
Who,  as  her  beaming  eyes  awake, 
Beholds  a  double  morning  break, 

The  dawn  of  light  and  love  ! 


THE   LAST    FLOWERS. 


Dost  thou  remember  that  Autumnal  day 

When  by  the  Seekonk's  lonely  wave  we  stood, 

And  marked  the  languor  of  repose  that  lay, 
Softer  than  sleep,  on  valley,  wave  and  wood  ? 


A  trance  of  holy  sadness  seemed  to  lull 
The  charmed  earth  and  circumambient  air, 

And  the  low  murmur  of  the  leaves  seemed  full 
Of  a  resigned  and  passionless  despair. 


Though  the  warm  breath  of  Summer  lingered  still 
In  the  lone  paths  where  late  her  footsteps  passed, 

The  pallid  star-flowers  on  the  purple  hill 

Sighed  dreamily  «'  we  are  the  last !  the  last !  " 


76  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  stood  beside  thee,  and  a  dream  of  heaven 

Around  me  like  a  a  golden  halo  fell  ! 
Then  the  bright  veil  of  phantasy  was  riven, 

And  my  lips  murmured  "fare  thee  well ! — farewell ! " 


I  dared  not  listen  to  thy  words,  nor  turn 
To  meet  the  mystic  language  of  thine  eyes, 

I  oi\[y  felt  their  power,  and  in  the  urn 

Of  memory,  treasured  their  sweet  rhapsodies. 


We  parted  then,  forever — and  the  hours 

Of  that  bright  day  were  gathered  to  the  past — 

But,  through  long,  wintry  nights,  I  heard  the  flowers 
Sigh  dreamily,  "  we  are  the  last ! — the  last !  " 


, 


77 


ARCTURUS. 


WRITTEN    IN    OCTOBER 


"  Our  star  looks  through  the  storm." 

Star  of  resplendent  front !  thy  glorious  eye 
Shines  on  me  still  from  out  yon  clouded  sky — • 
Shines  on  me  through  the  horrors  of  a  night 
More  drear  than  ever  fell  o'er  day  so  bright- 
Shines  till  the  envious  Serpent  slinks  away 
And  pales  and  trembles  at  thy  steadfast  ray. 


Hast  thou  not  stooped  from  heaven,  fair  star  !  to  be 
So  near  me  in  this  hour  of  agony  ? — 
So  near — so  bright — so  glorious,  that  I  seem 
To  lie  entranced  as  in  some  wondrous  dream — 


78  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

All  earthly  joys  forgot — all  earthly  fear 
Purged  in  the  light  of  thy  resplendent  sphere  : 
Gazing  upon  thee,  till  thy  flaming  eye 
Dilates  and  kindles  through  the  stormy  sky  ; 
While,  in  its  depths  withdrawn — far,  far  away- 
I  see  the  dawn  of  a  diviner  day. 


79 


ARCTURUS. 

WRITTEN    IN    APRIL, 


" Nec  morti  esse  locum,  sed  viva  volare 

Sideris  in  numerum  atque  alto  sueoedere  ccelo." 

VIRGIL,  GEOR.  IV. 


Again,  imperial  star!  thy  mystic  beams 

Pour  their  wild  splendors  on  my  waking  dreams, 

Piercing  the  blue  depths  of  the  vernal  night 

With  opal  shafts  and  flames  of  ruby  light ; 

Filling  the  air  with  melodies,  that  come 

Mournful  and  sweet,  from  the  dark,  sapphire  dome — 

Wierd  sounds,  that  make  the  cheek  with  wonder  pale, 

As  their  wild  symphonies  o'ersweep  the  gale. 


80  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

For,  in  that  gorgeous  world,  I  fondly  deem, 

Dwells  the  freed  soul  of  one  whose  earthly  dream 

Was  full  of  beauty,  majesty  and  wo  ; 

One  who,  in  that  pure  realm  of  thine,  doth  grow 

Into  a  power  serene — a  solemn  joy, 

Undimmed  by  earthly  sorrow  or  alloy ; 

Sphered  far  above  the  dread,  phantasmal  gloom — 

The  penal  tortures  of  that  living  tomb 

Wherein  his  earth-life  languished; — who  shall  tell 

The  drear  enchantments  of  that  Dantean  hell ! 


"  Was  it  not  Fate,  whose  earthly  name  is  Sorrow," 

That  bade  him,  with  prophetic  soul,  to  borrow 

From  all  the  stars  that  fleck  night's  purple  dome, 

Thee,  bright  Arcturus  !  for  his  Eden  home  : — 

Was  it  not  Fate,  whose  name  in  heaven  above, 

Is  Truth  and  Goodness  and  unchanging  Love, — 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that  bade  him  turn  to  thee 

As  the  bright  regent  of  his  destiny  ? — 

For  when  thine  orb  passed  from  the  lengthening  gloom 

Of  autumn  nights,  a  morning  star  to  bloom 

Beside  Aurora's  eastern  gates  of  pearl, 


ARCTURUS.  81 

He  passed  from  earth,  his  weary  wings  to  furl 

In  the  cool  vales  of  Heaven  :  thence,  through  yon  sea 

Of  starry  isles,  to  hold  his  course  to  thee. 


Now,  when  in  April's  cloudless  nights,  I  turn 
To  where  thy  pharos  mid  the  stars  doth  burn — 
A  glorious  cynosure — I  read  in  thee 
The  rune  of  Virgil's  golden  augury  ;  * 
And  deem  that  o'er  thy  seas  of  silver  calm, 
Floats  the  far  perfume  of  the  Eden  palm. 


*  For  there  is  no  place  of  annihilation :  but  alive  they  mount  up 
each  into  his  own  order  of  star,  and  take  their  high  seat  in  the 
heavens.— -GEORGICS,  BOOK  IV. 


THE   MORNING  GLORY. 


When  the  peach  ripens  to  a  rosy  bloom, 
When  purple  grapes  glow  through  the  leafy  gloom 
Of  trellised  vines,  bright  wonder,  thou  dost  come, 
Cool  as  a  star  dropt  from  night's  azure  dome, 
To  light  the  early  morning,  that  doth  break 
More  softly  beautiful  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

Thy  fleeting  glory  to  my  fancy  seems 

Like  the  strange  flowers  we  gather  in  our  dreams  ; 

Hovering  so  lightly  o'er  the  slender  stem, 

Wearing  so  meekly  the  proud  diadem 

Of  penciled  rays,  that  gave  the  name  you  bear 

Unblamed  amid  the  flowers,  from  year  to  year. 


THE    MORNING    GLORY.  83 

The  tawny  lily,  flecked  with  jetty  studs, 

Pard-like,  and  dropping  through  long,  pendant  buds 

Her  purple  anthers ; — nor  the  poppy,  bowed 

In  languid  sleep,  enfolding  in  a  cloud 

Of  drowsy  odors  her  too  fervid  heart, 

Pierced  by  the  day-god's  barbed  and  burning  dart ; — 

Nor  the  swart  sunflower,  her  dark  brows  enrolled 

With  their  broad  carcanets  of  living  gold — 

A  captive  princess — following  the  car 

Of  her  proud  conqueror  ; — nor  that  sweet  star, 

The  evening  primrose,  pallid  with  strange  dreams 

Born  of  the  wan  moon's  melancholy  beams  ; 

Nor  any  flower  that  doth  its  tendrils  twine 

Around  my  memory,  hath  a  charm  like  thine. 

Child  of  the  morning,  passionless  and  fair 

As  some  ethereal  creature  of  the  air, 

Waiting  not  for  the  bright  lord  of  the  hours 

To  weary  of  thy  bloom  in  sultry  bowers  ; 

Nor  like  the  summer  rose,  that  one  by  one, 

Yields  her  fair,  fragrant  petals  to  the  sun, 

Faint  with  the  envenomed  sweetness  of  his  smile, 

That  doth  to  lingering  death  her  race  beguile, 


84  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

But,  as  some  spirit  of  the  air  doth  fade 
Into  the  light  from  its  own  essence  rayed, 
So,  Glory  of  the  morning  !  fair  and  cold, 
Soon  in  thy  circling  halo  dost  thou  fold 
Thy  virgin  bloom,  and  from  our  vision  hide 
That  form  too  fair,  on  earth,  unsullied  to  abide.* 


*  "  The  disk  of  the  Convolvulus,  after  remaining  expanded  for 
a  few  hours,  gathers  itself  up  within  the  five  star-like  rays  that  in 
tersect  the  corolla  until  it  is  entirely  concealed  from  sight." — Sx . 
PIERRE. 


85 


THE   PHANTOM   VOICE. 


"  It  is  a  phantom  voice : 
Again ! — again !  how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts!" 

SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN.' 


Through  the  solemn  hush  of  midnight, 

How  sadly  on  my  ear, 
Falls  the  echo  of  a  harp  whose  tones 

I  never  more  may  hear  ! 


A  wild,  unearthly  melody, 
Whose  monotone  doth  move, 

The  saddest,  sweetest  cadences 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love  : 


86  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Till  the  burden  of  remembrance  weighs 

Like  lead  upon  my  heart, 
And  the  shadow,  on  my  soul  that  sleeps, 

Will  never  more  depart. 


The  ghastly  moonlight,  gliding 

Like  a  phantom  through  the  gloom, 

How  it  fills  with  solemn  fantasies 
My  solitary  room ! 


And  the  sighing  winds-of  Autumn, 
Ah  !  how  sadly  they  repeat 

That  low,  bewildering  melody, 
So  mystically  sweet ! 


I  hear  it  softly  murmuring 
At  midnight  o'er  the  hill, 

Or  across  the  wide  savannas, 
When  all  beside  is  still. 


THE   PHANTOM   VOICE. 


I  hear  it  in  the  moaning 
Of  the  melancholy  main — 

In  the  rushing  of  the  night-wind — 
The  rhythm  of  the  rain. 


E'en  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
Waving  sadly  to  and  fro, 

But  whisper  to  my  boding  heart, 
The  burden  of  its  wo. 


And  the  spectral  moon,  now  paling 
And  fading,  seems  to  say — 

41 1  leave  thee  to  remembrances 
That  will  not  pass  away." 


Ah,  through  all  the  solemn  midnight, 
How  mournful  't  is  to  hark 

To  the  voices  of  the  silence — 
The  whisper  of  the  dark  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  vain  I  turn,  some  solace 

Fron  the  distant  stars  to  crave  :• — 
They  are  shining  on  thy  sepulchre, 

Are  smiling  on  thy  grave. 


How  I  weary  of  their  splendor  I 
All  night  long,  they  seem  to  say, 

"  We  are  lonely — sad  and  lonely — 
Far  away — far,  far  av/ay  !  " 


Thus,  through  all  the  solemn  midnight, 
That  phantom  voice  I  hear  ; 

As  it  echoes  through  the  silence, 
When  no  earthly  sound  is  near. 


And  though  dawn-light  yields  to  noon-light^ 
And  though  darkness  turns  to  day, 

They  but  leave  me  to  remembrances 
That  will  not  pass  away. 


RESURGAMUS 


I  mourn  thee  not :  no  words  can  tell 

The  solemn  calm  that  tranced  my  breast, 

When  first  I  knew  thy  soul  had  past 
From  earth  to  its  eternal  rest ; 


For  doubt  and  darkness,  o'er  thy  head. 

Forever  waved  their  Condor  wings ; 
And  in  their  murky  shadows,  bred 

Forms  of  unutterable  things  ; 


And,  all  around  thy  silent  hearth, 

The  glory  that  once  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Was  but  a  dim-remembered  dream 

Of  '«  the  old  time  entombed." 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Few  were  the  hearts  whose  music  woke 
To  thy  wierd  harp,  that  loved  to  dwell 

On  far-off,  fairy-lands  forlorn — 
The  wild,  sweet  harp  of  Israfel. 


Those  melancholy  eyes  that  seemed 
To  look  beyond  all  time,  or  turned 

On  eyes  they  loved,  so  softly  beamed — 
How  few  their  mystic  language  learned. 


How  few  could  read  their  depths,  or  know 
The  proud,  high  heart  that  dwelt  alone 

In  gorgeous  palaces  of  woe, 

Like  Eblis  on  his  burning  throne. 


For  ah !  no  human  heart  could  brook 
The  darkness  of  thy  doom  to  share, 

And  not  a  living  eye  could  look 
Unscathed  upon  thy  dread  despair. 


RESURGAMUS. 


I  mourn  thee  not :  life  had  no  lore 
Thy  "soul  in  morphean  dews  to  steep, 

Love's  lost  nepenthe  to  restore, 
Or  bid  the  avenging  sorrow  sleep. 


Yet,  while  the  night  of  life  shall  last, 
While  the  slow  stars  above  me  roll, 

In  the  heart's  solitudes  I  keep 
A  solemn  vigil  for  thy  soul. 


I  tread  dim,  cloistral  aisles,  where  all 
Beneath  are  solemn-sounding  graves  ; 

While  o'er  the  oriel,  like  a  pall, 
A  dark,  funereal  shadow  waves. 


There,  kneeling  by  a  lampless  shrine, 
Alone  amid  a  place  of  tombs, 

My  erring  spirit  pleads  for  thine 
Till  light  along  the  orient  blooms. 


92  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Oh,  when  thy  faults  are  all  forgiven, 
When  all  my  sins  are  purged  away, 

May  our  freed  spirits  meet  in  heaven, 
Where  darkness  melts  to  perfect  day. 


There  may  thy  wondrous  harp  awake 
And  t^here  my  ransomed  soul,  with  thee, 

Behold  the  eternal  morning  break 
In  glory  o'er  the  jasper  sea. 


93 


TO   THE    MORNING    STAR 


"  Fair  crescent  star,  upborne  on  waves  of  light, — 
Bud  of  the  morning,  that  must  fade  so  soon." 

DALGONI. 


Sweet  Phosphor !  star  of  Love  and  Hope, 

Again  I  see  thy  silver  horn 
Rise  o'er  the  dark  and  dewy  slope 

Of  yonder  hills  that  hide  the  morn. 


All  night,  the  glooming  shadows  lay 
So  thick  on  valley,  wave,  and  wold, 

I  scarce  could  deem  the  buried  day 
Would  ever  pierce  their  shrouding  fold 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yet,  even  now,  a  line  of  light 

Comes  slowly  surging  o'er  the  dark  ; 

And  lo  !  thy  crescent,  floating  bright 
And  buoyant  as  a  fairy  bark. 


But  ah,  the  solemn  stars  of  night — 
The  distant  stars  that  long  have  set — 

How  can  I,  in  thy  nearer  light 

Of  love  and  hope,  their  smile  forget  ? — 


The  stars  that  trembled  through  my  dream- 
That  spoke  in  accents  faint  and  far — 

Can  I  forget  their  pensive  beam, 
For  thine,  my  radiant  morning  star  ? 


No  dawn-light  in  my  soul  can  wake 
One  hope  to  make  the  world  more  fair  ; 

No  noon-tide  ray  illume  the  lake 
Of  dark  remembrance,  brooding  there ; 


TO    THE    MORNING    STAR. 

But  Night  comes  down  the  paling  west, 
With  mystic  glories  on  her  brow — 

She  lays  her  cold  hand  on  my  breast, 
And  bids,  for  me,  the  lotus  blow : 


She  bears  me  on  her  Lethean  tides 
To  lands  by  living  waters  fed : 

She  lifts  the  cloudy  veil  that  hides 
The  dim  campagnas  of  the  dead. 


Down  the  long  corridor  of  dreams, 

She  leads  me  silently  away  ; 
Till,  through  its  shadowy  portal,  streams 

The  dawn  of  that  diviner  Day  ! 


96 


ON   A   STATUE   OF  DAVID.* 


Ay,  this  is  he ;  the  bold  and  gentle  boy, 

That  in  lone  pastures  by  the  mountain's  side, 

Guarded  his  fold,  and  through  the  midnight  sky, 
Saw  on  the  blast  the  God  of  battles  ride ; 

Beheld  his  bannered  armies  on  the  height, 

And  heard  their  clarion  sound  through  all  the  stormy 
night. 


Though  his  fair  locks  lie  all  unshorn,  and  bare 
To  the  bold  toying  of  the  mountain  wind, 

A  conscious  glory  haunts  the  o'ershadowing  air, 
And  waits,  with  glittering  coil,  his  brows  to  bind, 

While  his  proud  temples  bend  superbly  down, 

As  if  they  bore,  e'en  now,  the  burden  of  a  crown. 


*  Suggested  by  a  model  executed  by  Thomas  F.  Hoppin,  of 
Providence. 


ON    A    STATUE    OF    DAVID.  97 

Though  a  stern  sorrow  slumbers  in  his  eyes, 
As  if  his  prophet  glance  foresaw  the  day 

When  the  dark  waters  o'er  his  soul  should  rise, 
And  friends  and  lovers  wander  far  away ; 

Yet  the  graced  impress  of  that  floral  mouth 

Breathes  of  love's  golden  dream  and  the  voluptuous 
south. 


Peerless  in  beauty  as  the  prophet  star, 
That,  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn, 

Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar, 

And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  lingering  morn  ; 

Or  weary  at  the  day-god's  loitering  wain, 

Strikes  on  the  harp  of  light,  a  soft,  prelusive  strain. 


So  his  wild  harp,  with  psaltery  and  shawm, 
Awoke  the  nations  in  thick  darkness  furled, 

While  mystic  winds  from  Gilead's  groves  of  balm, 
Wafted  its  sweet  hosannas  through  the  world ; 

So,  when  the  day-spring  from  on  high,  he  sang, 

With  joy  the  ancient  hills  and  lonely  valleys  rang. 

8 


98  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Ay,  this  is  he  ;  the  minstrel,  prophet,  king  ; 

Before  whose  arm,  princes  and  warriors  sank  ; 
Who  dwelt  beneath  Jehovah's  mighty  wing, 

And  from  the  *'  river  of  his  pleasures  "  drank  ; 
Or,  through  the  rent  pavilions  of  the  storm, 
Beheld  the  cloud  of  fire  that  veiled  his  awful  form. 


And  now  he  stands  as  when  in  Elah's  vale, 
Where  warriors  set  the  battle  in  array, 

He  met  the  Titan  in  his  ponderous  mail, 

Whose  haughty  challenge,  many  a  summer's  day 

Rang  through  the  border  hills,  while  all  the  host 

Of  faithless  Israel  heard,  and  trembled  at  his  boast : 


Till  the  slight  stripling  from  the  mountain  fold, 
Stood,  all  unarmed,  amid  their  sounding  shields, 

And  in  his  youth's  first  bloom,  devoutly  bold, 
Dared  the  grim  champion  of  a  thousand  fields  : 

So  stands  he  now,  as  in  Jehovah's  might 

Glorying,  he  met  the  foe  and  won  the  immortal  fight. 


99 


WOOD-WALKS  IN   SPRING. 


"  Pleasure  sits  in  the  flower  cups,  and  breathes  itself  out  in  fra 
grance." 

RAHEL. 


As  the  fabled  stone  into  music  woke 
When  the  morning  sun  o'er  the  marble  broke, 
So  wakes  the  heart  from  its  stern  repose, 
As,  o'er  brow  and  bosom,  the  spring  wind  blows ; 
So  it  stirs  and  trembles,  as  each  low  sigh 
Of  the  breezy  south  comes  murmuring  by  : 
Murmuring  by,  like  a  voice  of  love, 
Wooing  us  forth  amid  flowers  to  rove  ; 
Breathing  of  meadow-paths,  thickly  sown 
With  pearls,  from  the  blossoming  fruit  trees  blown, 


100  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  of  banks  that  slope  to  the  southern  sky, 
Where  languid  violets  love  to  lie. 

No  foliage  droops  o'er  the  wood-path  now, 
No  dark  vines,  swinging  from  bough  to  bough ; 
But  a  trembling  shadow  of  silvery  green 
;Falls  through  the  young  leaf's  tender  screen, 
SLike  the  hue  that  borders  the  snowdrop's  bell, 
Or  lines  the  lid  of  an  Indian  shell  ; 
.And  a  fairy  light,  like  the  firefly's  glow, 
Flickers  and  fades  on  the  grass  below. 

There  the  pale  anemone  lifts  her  eye, 
To  look  at  the  clouds  as  they  wander  by  ; 
Or  lurks  in  the  shade  of  a  palmy  fern, 
To  gather  fresh  dews  in  her  waxen  urn. 
Where  the  moss  lies  thick  on  the  brown  earth's  breast, 
The  shy  little  mayflower  weaves  her  nest  ; 
But  the  south  wind  blows  o'er  the  fragrant  loam, 
And  .betrays  the  path  to  her  wood-land  home. 

Already  the  green-budding,  birchen  spray 
Winnows  the  balm  from  the  breath  of  May  ; 
And  the  aspen  thrills  to  a  low,  sweet  tone 
From  the  reedy  bugle  of  Faunus  blown. 


WOOD-WALKS    IN    SPRING.  101 

In  the  tangled  coppice,  the  dwarf-oak  weaves 
Her  fringe-like  blossoms  and  crimson  leaves ; 
The  sallows  their  delicate  buds  unfold 
Into  downy  feathers  bedropped  with  ^o-;d;?, '  >  '>  <>' 
While,  thick  as  stars  in  the  midnight  sky, 
In  the  dark,  wet  meadows  the  cowslips  He. 

A  love-tint  flushes  the  wind-flower's  cheek, 
Rich  melodies  gush  from  the  violet's  beak  ; 
On  the  rifts  of  the  rock  the  wild  columbines  grow, 
Their  heavy  honey-cups  bending  low ; 
As  a  heart  which  vague,  sweet  thoughts  oppress, 
Droops  with  its  burden  of  happiness. 

There  the  waters  drip  from  their  moss-rimmed  wells, 
With  a  sound  like  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells, 
Or  fall,  with  a  mellow  and  flute-like  flow, 
Through  the  channeled  clefts  cf  the  rock  below. 

Soft  music  gushes  in  every  tone, 
And  perfume  in  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
The  flower  in  fragrance,  the  bird  in  song, 
The  glittering  wave,  as  it  glides  along ; 
All,  breathe  the  incense  of  boundless  bliss, 
The  eloquent  music  of  happiness. 


. 


102  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Yet  sad  would  the  spring-time  of  Nature  seem 

To  the  soul  that  wanders  'mid  life's  dark  dream, 

Its  glory  a  meteor  that  sweeps  the  sky, 

.A  blossom  thai  floats  on  the  storm-wind  by  ; 

If  it  woke  no  thought  of  that  starry  clime 

'Seyofid  the  c'lesolate  seas  of  Time  ; 

If  it  nurtured  no  delicate  flower,  to  blow 

On  the  hills  where  the  palm  and  the  amaranth  grow. 


103 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN    NOVEMBER. 


Farewell  the  forest  shade,  the  twilight  grove, 
The  turfy  path  with  fern  and  flowers  inwove, 
Where  through  long,  summer  days,  I  wandered  far, 
Till  warned  of  evening  by  her  folding  star. 
No  more  I  linger  by  the  fountain's  play, 
Where  arching  boughs  shut  out  the  sultry  ray, 
Making  at  noontide  hours  a  dewy  gloom 
O'er  the  moist  marge,  where  weeds  and  wild  flower: 

bloom ; 

Till,  from  the  western  sun,  a  glancing  flood 
Of  arrowy  radiance  filled  the  twilight  wood, 
Glinting  athwart  each  leafy,  verdant  fold, 
And  flecking  all  the  turf  with  drops  of  gold. 


104  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Sweet  sang  the  wild  bird,  on  the  waving  bough, 
Where  cold  November  winds  are  wailing  now ; 
The  chirp  of  insects  on  the  sunny  lea, 
And  the  low,  drousy  bugle  of  the  bee, 
Are  silent  all ;  closed  is  their  vesper  lay, 
Borne  by  the  breeze  of  Autumn  far  away  : 
Yet,  still  the  withered  heath  I  love  to  rove, 
The  bare,  brown  meadow,  and  the  leafless  grove ; 
Still  love  to  tread  the  bleak  hill's  rocky  side, 
Where  nodding  asters  wave  in  purple  pride ; 
Or,  from  its  summit,  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  the  dark  waters,  booming  far  below. 
Still  through  the  tangling,  pathless  copse  I  stray 
Where  sere  and  rustling  leaves  obstruct  the  way, 
To  find  the  last,  pale  blossom  of  the  year, 
That  strangely  blooms  when  all  is  dark  and  drear  ; 
The  wild,  witch  hazel,  fraught  with  mystic  power 
To  ban  or  bless,  as  sorcery  rules  the  hour. 
Then,  homeward  wending,  thro'  the  dusky  vale 
Where  winding  rills  their  evening  damps  exhale, 
Pause  by  the  dark  pool,  in  whose  sleeping  wave 
Pale  Dian  loves  her  golden  locks  to  lave ; 
In  the  hushed  fountain's  heart,  serene  and  cold, 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    NOVEMBER.  105 

Glassing  her  glorious  image  ;  as  of  old, 

When  first  she  stole  upon  Endymion's  rest, 

And  his  young  dreams  with  heavenly  beauty  blest. 

And  thou,  "  stern  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Cold,  cheerless  Winter,  hath  thy  wild  career 
No  sweet,  peculiar  pleasures  for  the  heart, 
That  can  ideal  worth  to  rudest  forms  impart  ? 
When,  through  thy  long,  dark  nights,  cold  sleet  and 

rain 

Patter  and  plash  against  the  frosty  pane, 
Warm  curtained  from  the  storm,  I  love  to  lie, 
Wakeful,  and  listening  to  the  lullaby 
Of  fitful  winds,  that  as  they  rise  and  fall, 
Send  hollow  murmurs  through  the  echoing  hall. 

Oft,  by  the  blazing  hearth  at  eventide, 
I  love  to  see  the  fitful  shadows  glide, 
In  flickering  motion,  o'er  the  illumined  wall, 
Till  slumber's  honey-dew  my  senses  thrall : 
Then,  while  in  dreamy  consciousness,  I  lie 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  fairy  fantasy 
Culls,  from  the  golden  past,  a  treasured  store, 
And  weaves  a  dream  so  sweet,  hope  could  not  ask  for 
more. 


106  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  the  cold  splendor  of  a  frosty  night, 
When  blazing  stars  burn  with  intenser  light 
Through  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  when  the  keen  air 
Sculptures  in  bolder  lines  the  uplands  bare ; 
When  sleeps  the  shrouded  earth,  in  solemn  trance, 
Beneath  the  wan  moon's  melancholy  glance ; 
I  love  to  mark  earth's  sister  planets  rise, 
And  in  pale  beauty  tread  the  midnight  skies  ; 
Where,  like  lone  pilgrims,  constant  as  the  night, 
They  fill  their  dark  urns  from  the  fount  of  light. 

I  love  the  Borealis  flames  that  fly, 
Fitful  and  wild,  athwart  the  northern  sky  ; 
The  storied  constellations,  like  a  page 
Fraught  with  the  wonders  of  a  former  age, 
Where  monsters  grim,  gorgons,  and  hydras,  rise, 
And  "  gods  and  heroes  blaze  along  the  skies." 

Thus  Nature's  music,  various  as  the  hour, 
Solemn  or  sweet,  hath  ever  mystic  power 
Still  to  preserve  the  unperverted  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty ;  to  impart 
Treasures  of  thought  and  feeling,  pure  and  deep, 
That  aid  the  doubting  soul  its  heavenward  course  to 
keep. 


107 


EVENING  ON   THE   BANKS  OF  THE 
MOOSHAUSSUCK. 


"  Now  to  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought, 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 

SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS. 


Again  September's  golden  day, 

Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umbered  hills  away, 

And  melts  into  the  coming  night. 
Again  Mooshaussuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side, 
Each  tasselled  wreath  and  tangling  vine, 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 


108  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  standing  on  its  velvet  shore, 

Where  yesternight,  with  thee,  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more, 

Far  winding  on,  through  vale  and  wood ; 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist, 
By  the  last,  glinting  sunbeams  kissed, 
Now  lost,  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel  copse  and  moss-fringed  wall. 


Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn, 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still ; 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
While,  far  aloft,  where  pine  trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapors  cloud  the  illumined  air 
And  parting  daylight  lingers  there. 


But  ah,  no  longer  thou  art  near, 
This  varied  loveliness  to  see  ; 

And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here, 
To-night,  can  only  think  on  thee; 


EVENING  ON  THE  MOOSHAUSSUCK.  109 

The  flowers  thy  gentle  hand  carressed, 
Still  lie  unwithered  on  my  breast  ; 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore, 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 


Again  I  hear  the  murmuring  fall 

'Of  water  from  some  distant  dell, 
The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell ; 
Again,  again,  those  sounds  I  hear ; 
But  oh,  how  desolate  and  drear 
They  seem  to-night ;  how  like  a  knell 
The  music  of  that  evening  bell. 


Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west, 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky, 

Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
With  one,  pale  planet  trembling  nigh  ; 

And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 

As  when  we  blessed  its  beams  last  night ; 

But  thou  art  on  the  far  blue  sea, 

And  I  can  only  think  on  thee. 


110 


THE   GARDEN   SEPULCHRE 


WEITTEN  FOR  THE  CONSECRATION  OP  THE  CEMETERY 
AT  SWAN  POINT. 


In  the  faith  of  Him  who  saw 
The  eternal  morning  rise,  1 

Through  the  open  gates  of  pearl, 
On  the  hills  of  Paradise: 


Looking  to  the  promised  land, 
Saw  the  verdant  palms,  that  wave 

In  the  calm  and  lustrous  air, 
Through  the  shadows  of  the  grave ; 


THE    GARDEN    SEPULCHRE.  Ill 

In  His  name,  whose  deathless  love 

With  a  glory  all  divine, 
Filled  the  garden-sepulchre, 

Far  away  in  Palestine  ; 


We  would  consecrate  a  place 

Where  our  loved  ones  may  repose, 

When  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
And  the  weary  eyelids  close  ; — 


Fairer  than  a  festal  hall 

Wreath  the  chambers  of  their  rest  ;• 
Sacred  to  the  tears  that  fall 

O'er  the  slumbers  of  the  blest : — 


Sacred  to  the  hopes  that  rise 

Heavenward  from  this  vale  of  tears, 
Soaring,  with  unwearied  wing, 

Through  the  illimitable  years. 


*  . 


112  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Each  sweet  nursling  of  the  spring 
Here  shall  weep  its  fresh'ning  dews, 

Here  its  fragile  censer  swing, 
And  all  its  fragrant  soul  diffuse. 


The  lily,  in  her  white  symar, 
Fondly  o'er  the  turf  shall  wave, 

Asphodels  and  violets  star 

All  the  green-sward  of  the  grave. 


Here  the  pale  anemone 

In  the  April  breeze  shaft  nod, 

And  the  may-flower  weave  her  blooms, 
Through  and  through  the  velvet  sod. 


Bending  by  the  storied  urn, 
Purple  eglantine  shall  blow, 

Till  the  pallid  marble  takes, 
From  her  cheek,  a  tender  glow. 


THE    GARDEN    SEPULCHRE.  113 

Where  the  folding  branches  close 

In  a  verdant  coronal, 
Through  their  dim  and  dreaming  boughs, 

Faintly  shall  the  sun-beams  fall. 


Memories,  mournful,  yet  how  sweet! 

Here  shall  weave  their  mystic  spell  ; 
Angels  tread,  with  silent  feet, 

Paths  where  love  and  sorrow  dwell. 


No  rude  sound  of  earth  shall  break 
The  dim  quiet,  evermore  ; 

But  the  winds  and  waves  shall  chaunt 
A  requiem  on  the  lonely  shore. 


Flitting  through  the  laurel's  gloom, 
The  humming-bird  shall  wander  by, 

Winnowing  the  floral  bloom, 
From  cups  of  wreathed  ivory. 


114  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  bee  shall  wind  his  fairy  horn, 
Faintly  murmuring  on  the  ear ; 

Sounds  that  seem  of  silence  born, 
Soothe  the  soul  of  sadness  here ; 


Many  a  low  and  mystic  word, 
From  the  realm  of  shadows  sent, 

In  the  busy  throng  unheard, 
Make  the  silence  eloquent : 


Words  of  sweetest  promise,  spoken 
Only  where  the  dirge  is  sung; 

Where  the  golden  bowl  is  broken, 
And  the  silver  chord  unstrung. 


Faith  shall,  with  uplifted  eye, 
All  the  solitude  illume; 

Hope  and  Memory  shall  sit, 
Shining  seraphs,  by  the  tomb. 


115 


OUR   ISLAND   OF   DREAMS. 


"  By  the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

KEATS. 


Tell  him  I  lingered  alone  on  the  shore, 

Where  we  parted,  in  sorrow,  to  meet  never  more ; 

The  night  wind  blew  cold  on  my  desolate  heart, 

But  colder  those  wild  words  of  doom  "Ye  must  part !" 


O'er  the  dark,  heaving  waters,  I  sent  forth  a  cry  ; 
Save  the  wail  of  those  waters  there  came  no  reply. 
I  longed,  like  a  bird,  o'er  the  billows  to  flee, 
From  our  lone,  island  home  and  the  moan  of  the  sea: 


I  16  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Away — far  away — from  the  wild  ocean  shore, 
"Where  the  waves   ever  murmur,   "  No  more,    never 

more ;" 

Where  I  wake,  in  the  wild  noon  of  midnight,  to  hear 
That  lone  song  of  tha  surges,  so  mournful  and  drear. 

Yet  tell  him  our  own,  fairy  isle  of  the  sea, 
Is  still  dear,  in  its  desolate  beauty,  to  me  ; 
Though  a  hollow  wind  sighs  through  its  echoing  bow 
ers, 
Though  I  wander  alone  through  its  Eden  of  flowers ; 


Though  the  wing  of  the  tempest  o'ershadows  the  wold 
Where  the  asphodel  meadows  once  blossomed  in  gold; 
Though  the  silence  and  chill  of  the  sepulchre  sleep 
On  its  dream-haunted  woodlands  that  border  the  deep. 


And  say,  though  the  night  wind  blew  cold,    and  the 

gloom 

Of  our  parting  was  drear  as  the  night  of  the  tomb, 
I  know,  when  all  shadows  are  swept  from  the  main, 
Our  own  star  o'er  the  waters  shall  tremble  again. 


OUR    ISLAND    OF    DREAMS.  117 

When  the  clouds  that  now  veil  from  us  heaven's  fair 

light, 

Their  soft,  silver  lining  turn  forth  on  the  night; 
When  time  shall  the  vapors  of  falsehood  dispel, 
fie  shall  know  if  I  loved  him  ;  but  never  how  well 


Though  we  meet  not  again  in  our  island  of  flowers, — 
Though  the  hollow  winds  sigh  through  its  desolate  bow 
ers, 

Every  bud  that  the  wing  of  the  tempest  has  riven, 
Shall  blossom  again  in  the  islands  of  Heaven. 


118 


IN  APRIL'S  DIM  AND  SHOWERY  NIGHTS. 


In  April's  dim  and  showery  nights, 
When  music  melts  along  the  air, 

And  Memory  wakens  at  the  kiss 

Of  wandering  perfumes,  faint  and  rare; 


Sweet,  spring-time  perfumes,  such  as  won 
Proserpina  from  realms  of  gloom, 

To  bathe  her  bright  locks  in  the  sun, 
Or  bind  them  with  the  pansy's  bloom  ; 


When  light  winds  rift  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  orchards  shed  their  floral  wreath  , 

Strewing  the  turf  with  starry  flowers, 
And  dropping  pearls  at  every  breath; 


APRIL    NIGHTS.  119 

When,  all  night  long,  the  boughs  are  stirred 
With  fitful  war bl ings  from  the  nest  ; 

And  the  heart  flutters,  like  a  bird, 
With  its  sweet,  passionless,  unrest ; 


Oh !  then,  beloved,  I  think  on  thee, 
And  on  that  life,  so  strangely  fair, 

Ere  yet  one  cloud  of  memory 

Had  gathered  in  hope's  golden  air  : 


I  think  on  thee  and  thy  lone  grave 
On  the  green  hill-side,  far  away ; 

I  see  the  wilding  flowers  that  wave 

Around  thee,  as  the  night  winds  sway  ; 


And  still,  though  only  clouds  remain 
On  life's  horizon,  cold  and  drear ; 

The  dream  of  youth  returns  again 
With  the  sweet  promise  of  the  year. 


120 


THE   ENCHANTED   CASTLE 

FKOM  "THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY." 


All  slept :  the  armorial  bannerals 
Drooped  idly  from  the  castle  walls, 

Nor  wooed  the  morning's  beam  : 
The  bell,  within  the  mouldering  tower. 
No  longer  tolled  the  passing  hour  ; 

The  castle  was  a  dream. 


A  pathless  forest,  wild  and  wide, 
Engirt  the  wall  on  every  side, 

And  stretched  for  many  a  mile  : 
Eternal  silence  brooded  there, 
Eternal  shadows  filled  the  air, 

And  veiled  the  slumbering  pile. 


THE    ENCHANTED    CASTLE.  12f 

So  high  the  ancient  cedars  sprung, 
So  far  aloft  their  branches  flung, 

So  thick  the  covert  grew, 
No  foot  its  mazes  could  invade, 
No  eye  could  pierce  its  depths  of  shade,. 

Or  see  the  welkin  through. 


Yet  oft,  as,  from  some  distant  mound, 
The  traveler  cast  his  eyes  around 

O'er  wold  and  woodland  grey  ; 
He  saw,  athwart  the  glimmering  light 
Of  moonbeams,  on  a  misty  night, 

A  castle,  far  away. 


A  hundred  winters  sapped  the  towers  ; 
A  hundred  summers  rained  their  flowers 

Upon  the  castle  lawn  : 

Through  day  and  night,  through  night  and  day, 
In  charmed  rest,  the  lady  lay, 

Unmindful  of  the  dawn. 


122  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

A  hundred  Norland  winters  passed  ; 
A  hundred  golden  summers  cast 

Their  glory  on  the  shore  ; 
And  still  the  guardant  angels  kept 
The  place  all  holy,  where  she  slept, 

And  blessed  her  ever  more. 


123 


THE   ROUT    OF   THE    CHILDREN. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 


Little  darlings,  return  to  my  desolate  room  ! 
Since  I  drove  you  away,  it  is  mantled  in  gloom  ; — 
Since  I  drove  you  away,  with  rude,  menacing  words ; — 
What  harm  had  you  done  me,  you  dear  little  birds  ? 
Little  rosy-lipped  bandits ;-what  mischief  had  hatched? 
What  gem  from  my  casket  of  minerals  snatched? — 
What  old,  gothic  missal,  enriched  by  your  hands, 
With  fantastic  designs,  you  mischievous  brigands  ? 
Ah,  none  :  you  but  stopped  in  my  study  a  minute, 
To  plunder  my  desk  of  some  papers  within  it — 


124  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Some  manuscript  verses  devoted  to  Fame  ; 
Which  you  threw  in  the  fire,  and  fanned  to  a  flame, 
On  the  tissue  of  tinder  all  blackened  and  charred, 
With  wandering  fire-sparks  brilliantly  starred, 
To  see,  as  you  said,  how  the  folks,  one  by  one, 
Go  out  of  the  church  when  the  meeting  is  done. 
Then,  muttering  vengeance,  in  menacing  tone, 
I  shouted,  (l  Begone  imps,  and  leave  me  alone  ! 
You  have  burnt  up  my  verses,  entitled  *  To  Fame :' 
I  shall  die,  and  t,he  world  never  hear  of  my  name." 


Great  loss  then,  indeed  !  and  great  cause  for  dismay, — 
A  strophe,  ill-born  in  the  noise  of  your  play ! 
Great  Bobadil  verses  that  puffed  as  they  went, 
And  swaggered  their  impotent  meanings  to  vent ; 
And  long  alexandrines,  entangling  their  feet 
Like  a  pack  of  rude  school-boys,  let  loose  in  the  street. 
You  did  but  redeem  from  a  fate  more  obscure, 
The  rhyme  that  some  newspaper  waited  to  lure 
To  that  cavernous  cell,  called  the  poet's  own  nook, 
Where  no  reader  of  newspapers  pauses  to  look. 
For  this  have  I  raved  !  Ah,  I  blush  to  recall 
H®w  I  sat,  with  my  chair  leaning  back  to  the  wall, 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN.         125 

Still  muttering  vengeance,  in  menacing  tone, 

And  repeating  "  Begone  imps,  and  leave  me  alone  ! " 


Alone!  fine  result,  and  great  triumph  !  alone  ! 
Forgotten — forlorn,  like  a  toad  in  a  stone ! 
And  here  have  you  left  me — my  eye  on  the  door, 
Grave,  haughty,  severe, — but  you  mind  me  no  more ; 
For  without  you  have  found  all  you  sought  to  obtain — 
All  the  freedom,  that  here,  you  had  sighed  for  in  vain — 
The  fresh  air,  the  streamlet  that  runs  through  the  grass, 
Where  you  fling  in  sweet  blossoms  and  leaves  as  you 

pass; 

The  breezes,  the  flowers,  the  perfumes  divine — 
Ah,  this  poem  of  God  is  far  better  than  mine  ! 
You  may  pluck  out  the  leaves  of  his  book  without  fear, 
Nor  tremble  the  voice  of  the  tyrant  to  hear  : — 
His  roses  and  pinks  you  may  rifle  all  day, 
Nor  regret  the  dull  room  whence  I  drove  you  away. 
As  for  me,  all  the  joy  of  my  day  has  departed  ; 
I  sit  in  my  chair — half  asleep,  heavy  hearted, 
While  old  Doctor  Ennui,  a  Londoner,  born 
Of  fogs  and  the  Thames  on  a  December  morn, 


126  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Who  waited  to  enter  'till  you  had  gone  out  ; 
Has  moped  in  my  study  all  day  in  a  pout, 
And,  usurping  your  corner,  sits  grouty  and  grim, 
He  gaping  at  me,  and  I  gaping  at  him. 

The  pages  I  turned  with  such  zeal  to  explore, 
The  books  and  the  manuscripts  please  me  no  more  : 
I  miss,  o'er  my  shoulder,  the  sweet,  peering  face, 
I  miss  the  small  finger  to  point  out  the  place, 
The  nudge  of  the  elbow,  the  sly  little  kiss, 
The  brow  full  of  candor,  that  always  said  "yes," 
The  great  eyes  of  wonder,  the  frolicksome  screams, 
The  sweet  humming  voices  that  lapt  me  in  dreams. 

Return  little  birds  ! — since  I  drove  you  away 
I  have  lost  all  the  sunshine  and  bloom  of  my  day. 

Take  my  tea-cups,  enameled  with  butterflies  wings — 
All  my  Dresden  and  Sevres  and  beautiful  things  : — 
You  may  twirl  the  round  globe,   the  big  map  may  un 
roll, 

And  sketch  out  new  countries  with  crayon  and  coal. 
My  pictures  and  statues  are  waiting  for  you — 
My  vases  of  jasper  and  bright  or-molu  : 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN.         127 

Of  my  corals  and  shells  you  may  gather  your  fill, 
And  my  malachite  tables  may  mount  at  your  will. 
Your  whooping  and  hiding — to  all  I  agree  ; 
Your  trooping  and  training  are  music  to  me. 
Like  heroes,  returned  from  some  great  battle  ground, 
You  may  drag  my  old  arm-chair  in  triumph  around  : 
My  great,  painted  Bible  may  turn  o'er  and  o'er — 
That  book  you  ne'er  touched  but  with  terror  before — 
Where  you  see  on  the  page,  in  fine  colors  displayed, 
Dieu  le  pere,  in  an  emperor's  habit  arrayed ! 

i  ••  •, 

Then  return,  little  doves  !  to  my  desolate  room ; 
Since  I  drove  you  away,  it  is  mantled  in  gloom ; — 
Oh  return  !  you  may  ransack,  and  rifle,  and  reign, 
So  you  will  but  forgive  me,  and  love  me  again. 


128 


SUMMER'S    CALL   TO    THE    LITTLE 
ORPHAN. 


"  Viens  j'  ai  dcs  fruits  d'  or,  j'  ai  des  roses; 
J'  en  remplirai  tes  petits  bras." 

VICTOR  HUGO. 


The  summer  skies  are  darkly  blue, 
The  days  are  still  and  bright, 

And  Evening  trails  her  robes  of  gold 
Through  the  dim  halls  of  Night. 


Then,  when  the  little  orphan  wakes, 
A  low  voice  whispers  "  Come, 

And  all  day  wander  at  thy  will 
Beneath  my  azure  dome. 


SUMMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN.     129 

Beneath  my  vaulted,  azure  dome, 

Through  all  my  flowery  lands, 
No  higher  than  the  lowly  thatch 

The  royal  palace  stands. 

>I  J  A 

I'll  fill  thy  little,  longing  arms 
With  fruits  and  wilding  flowers  ; 

I'll  tell  thee  tales  of  fairy-land 
In  the  long  twilight  hours." 


The  orphan  hears  that  wooing  voice, 
Awhile  he  softly  broods, — 

Then  hastens  down  the  sunny  slopes, 
Into  the  twilight  woods. 


The  waving  branches  murmur 

Strange  secrets  in  his  ear, 
But  the  nodding  flowers  welcome  him, 

And  whisper  "  Never  fear." 

10 


130  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  sees  the  squirrel  peeping 
From  the  coverts  cool  and  dim, 

And  the  water-lilies  sleeping 
Along  the  fountain's  brim. 


He  hears  the  wild  bee  humming' 
In  the  roses  by  the  rill ; 

He  nestles  in  the  hollow  tree, 
He  clambers  up  the  hill. 


He  weaves  a  little  basket 
From  the  willow  as  he  goes, 

And  be  'heaps  it  up  with  blackberries, 
And  blueberries,  and  sloes. 


'The  brook  stays  him,  at  the  crossing, 

In  its  waters  cool  and  sweet, 
And  the  pebbles  leap  around  him, 
And  frolic  at  his- feet. 


SUiMMER's  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN.          131 

Half  fearfully,  half  joyfully, 

He  treads  the  forest  dim, 
Till  he  hears  the  woodbirds  chaunting 

Their  holy,  sylvan  hymn. 


Then,  in  the  cool  of  even-tide, 
The  Father's  voice  he  hears, 

As  men  heard  it  in  the  Eden, 
Of  Earth's  paradisal  years. 


The  red-bird  furls  her  shining  wing, 
The  squirrel  seeks  his  lair ; 

The  flowers,  folding  up  their  leaves, 
Incline  their  heads  in  prayer. 


The  orphan  feels  a  brooding  calm 
O'er  all  his  senses  creep  ; 

And,  by  the  little  ground-bird's  nest, 
He  lays  him  down  to  sleep, 


132  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  Moon  comes  gliding  through  the  trees, 

And  softly  stoops  to  spread 
Her  dainty  silver  kirtle 

Upon  his  grassy  bed. 


The  drowsy  Night-wind,  murmuring 
Its  quaint  old  tunes  the  while  ; 

Till  Morning  wakes  him  with  a  song. 
And  greets  him  with  a  smile. 


133 


A    HOLLOW   OF    THE    HILLS. 


In  the  soft  gloom  of  Summer's  balmy  eve, 
When  from  the  lingering  glances  of  the  Sun 
The  sad  Earth  turns  away  her  blushing  cheek, 
Mantling  its  glow  in  twilight's  shadowy  veil ; 
Oft  mid  the  falling  dews  I  love  to  stray 
Onward  and  onward,  through  the  pleasant  fields  ; 
Far  up  the  lilied  borders  of  the  stream, 
To  this  green,  silent  hollow  of  the  hills, 
Endeared  by  thronging  memories  of  the  past. 


, 


134  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Oft  have  I  lingered  on  this  rustic  bridge, 
To  view  the  limpid  waters  winding  on 
Under  dim-vaulted  woods,  whose  woven  boughs 
Of  beech  and  maple  and  broad  sycamore 
Throw  their  soft,  moving  shadows  o'er  the  wave  ; 
While  blossomed  vines,  dropped  to  the  water's  brim, 
Hang  idly  swaying  in  the  summer  wind. 

The  birds  that  wander  through  the  twilight  heaven 
Are  mirrored  far  beneath  me  ;  and  young  leaves 
That  tremble  on  the  birch-tree's  silver  boughs, 
In  the  cool  wave  reflected,  gleam  below, 
Like  twinkling  stars  athwart  the  verdant  gloom. 

A  sound  of  rippling  waters  rises  sweet 
Amid  the  silence  ;  and  the  western  breeze, 
Sighing  through  sedges  and  low  meadow-blooms, 
Comes  wafting  gentle  thoughts  from  Memory's  land, 
And  wakes  the  long  hushed  music  of  the  heart. 

Oft  dewy  Spring  hath  brimmed  the  brook  with  show 
ers  ; 

Oft  hath  the  long,  bright  Summer  fringed  its  banks 
With  breathing  blossoms  ;  and  the  Autumn  sun 
Shed  mellow  hues  o'er  all  its  wooded  shores, 


A    HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  135 

Since  first  I  trod  these  paths,  in  youth's  sweet  prime, 
With  loved  ones  whom  time's  desolating  wave 
Hath  wafted  now  for  ever  from  my  side. 

Long  years  have  passed  :  and  on  its  flowery  brink, 
Bereft  and  sorrow-taught,  alone  I  stand, 
Listening  the  hollow  music  of  the  wind. 
Alone — alone  :  the  stars  are  far  away, 
And  wild  clouds  wander  o'er  the  face  of  heaven  ; 
But  still  the  green  earth  wears  her  summer  crown 
And  whispers  hope  through  all  her  breathing  flowers. 

Not  all  in  vain  the  vision  of  our  youth ; 
The  apocalypse  of  beauty  and  of  love  ; 
The  stag-like  heart  of  hope.     Life's  mystic  dream 
The  soul  shall  yet  interpret ;  to  our  prayer 
The  Isis  veil  be  lifted.     Though  we  pine 
E'en  'mid  the  ungathered  roses  of  our  youth, 
Pierced  with  strange  pangs  and  longings  infinite, 
As  if  earth's  fairest  flowers  served  but  to  wake 
Sad,  haunting  memories  of  our  Eden  home  ; 
Not  all  in  vain.     Meantime,  in  patient  trust, 
Rest  we  on  Nature's  bosom  ;  from  her  eye, 
Serene  and  still,  drinking  in  faith  and  love ; 


136  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

To  her  calm  pulse  attempering  the  heart 

That  throbs  too  wildly  for  ideal  bliss. 

Oh,  gentle  Mother,  heal  me ;  for  I  faint 

Upon  life's  arid  path-way ;  or  apart, 

On  lonely  mountain  heights,  oft  hear  a  voice 

Tempting  my  agony  with  perilous  thoughts 

Of  death's  calm,  dreamless  slumber  ;  and  my  feet 

On  the  dark  mountains  stumble :  near  thy  heart 

Close  nestling,  let  me  lie ;  and  let  thy  breath, 

Fragrant  and  cool,  fall  on  my  fever'd  cheek, 

As  in  those  unworn  ages  ere  pale  thought 

Forestalled  life's  patient  harvest.     Give  me  strength 

To  follow,  wheresoe'er  o'er  the  world's  waste 

The  cloudy  pillar  rnoveth ;  till  at  last 

It  guide  to  pleasant  vales  and  pastures  green 

By  the  still  waters  of  eternal  life. 


137 


A   VISION   OF   PARADISE. 

SUGGESTED    BY    DUBUFE'S    PICTURES   OF  THE  TEMPTATION 
AND  EXPULSION. 


Methought  this  dim,  old  world  had  passed  away, 

With  all  its  load  of  agony  and  crime ; 

And  brightly  o'er  me  dawned  that  glorious  day 

When  nature  woke  in  its  refulgent  prime  ; 

So  broad  the  splendor,  so  intensely  fair, 

The  unaccustomed  sense  pined  in  that  purer  air. 


Two  peerless  forms  of  loveliness  and  light, 
"In  native  honor  robed,"  before  me  shone, 
Dazzling  and  blinding  my  bewildered  sight 
With  rays  reflected  from  Jehovah's  throne  ; 
While,  like  bright  stars  in  their  supernal  sphere, 
Above  all  pain  they  seemed,  all  sorrow,  hope  or  fear. 


138  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Beauty,  and  purity,  and  heavenly  grace 
Floated  around  them  like  an  atmosphere  ; 
While  love's  young  star,  that  mocks  our  fallen  race 
With  meteor  fires  malign,  soft  gleaming  there, 
In  their  horizon  dawned  with  cloudless  ray, 
Without  one  shade  or  stain  that  dimmed  its  after  day. 


<l  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my.  dream;" 
The  light,  the  loveliness,  the  bloom  had  fled. 
I  trembled  at  the  lightning's  lurid  gleam, 
And  the  loud  thunder  pealing  o'er  my  head. — 
The  dark  waves  rolled  around  ;  the  lion's  roar 
Blent  with  the  sounding  surge,  and  rocked  the  storm- 
beat  shore. 


And  where  were  they,  the  beautiful,  the  pure  ? 
Alas  !  now  pure  and  beautiful  no  more  ; 
Scathed  with  the  curse  of  knowledge ;  to  endure, 
The  sole,  stern  lesson  of  their  withering  lore  ; 
Driven  from  their  paradisal  dream  away, 
Through  pathless  realms  of  death,  to  seek  the  gates  of 
day. 


A    VISION    OF   PARADISE.  139 

Is  there  no  mercy  in  the  heavens  above  1 
No  star  to  light  the  exiles  to  their  doom  ? — 
There  is  ! — there  is  ! — the  deathless  lamp  of  love, 
Shedding  its  soft,  pale  splendor  through  the  gloom  ; 
Shorn  of  its  earlier  rays — yet  oh,  how  fair 
That   holy  flame   that  burns  through   darkness   and 
despair. 


Look  on  those  dewy  orbs  like  violets  dim ! 
No  fear  of  danger,  death,  or  pain's  keen  throe 
Glooms  their  pure  heaven  of  love  ;  alone  for  him 
Those  dark  forebodings  of  unfathomed  woe  ; 
On  him  she  turns  her  soft,  appealing  eye, 
Resigned  for  him  to  live,  with  him  resolved  to  die  : 


For  him  she  dared  love's  Eden  to  forego, 
And  the  fond  yearnings  of  her  heart  to  quell, 
That  he  the  secret  of  the  world  might  know, 
And  grasp  the  fruit  of  knowledge  ere  it  fell. 
For  him  she  sought  the  lore  of  gods,  to  sate 
The  pride  of  soul  that  left  her  own  heart  desolate. 


140  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  disenchanted  scene  is  dark  with  woe ; 

God's  image  seared  with  sin's  corroding  brand ; 

O'er  all  remorse  and  grief  their  shadows  throw, 

And  leaguered  angels  guard  the  holy  land  : 

The  gate  of  dreams  is  passed ;  through  pain  and  toil 

Must  the  fair  soul,  her  wings,  from  earthly  stain  assoil. 


And  this  the  riddle  of  our  destiny ; 

The  lore  of  lands  whence  life's  deep  waters  welled. 

Still  the  cold  shadow  of  the  poison  tree 

Darkens  our  earth  as  in  the  days  of  eld  : 

With  lingering  pain,  the  soul  evolves  its  power ; 

And,  on  a  mortal  stem,  unfolds  the  immortal  flower. 


141 


THE   PAST. 


'So  fern,  tmd  doch  so  nab." 
GOETHE. 


Thick  darkness  broodeth  o'er  the  world  : 

The  raven  pinions  of  the  Night, 
Close  on  her  silent  bosom  furled, 

Reflect  no  gleam  of  orient  light. 
E'en  the  wild  Norland  fires  that  mocked 

The  faint  bloom  of  the  eastern  sky, 
Now  leave  me,  in  close  darkness  locked. 

To  night's  weird  realm  of  phantasy. 
, 


142  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Borne  from  pale  shadow-lands  remote, 

A  morphean  music,  wildly  sweet, 
Seems,  on  the  starless  gloom,  to  float, 

Like  the  white-pinioned  Paraclete. 
Softly  into  my  dream  it  flows, 

Then  faints  into  the  silence  drear ; 
While  from  the  hollow  dark  outgrows 

The  phantom  Past,  pale  gliding  near. 


The  visioned  Past ;  so  strangely  fair  ! 

So  veiled  in  shadowy,  soft  regrets, 
So  steeped  in  sadness,  like  the  air 

That  lingers  when  the  day-star  sets  ! 
Ah  !  could  I  fold  it  to  my  heart, 

On  its  cold  lip  my  kisses  press, 
This  waste  of  aching  life  impart, 

To  win  it  back  from  nothingness  ! 


I  loathe  the  purple  light  of  day, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 

Beside  that  shadowy  form  to  stray, 
For  ever  near,  yet  oh  how  far ! 


THE    PAST.  143 

I 

Thin  as  a  cloud  of  summer  even, 

All  beauty  from  my  gaze  it  bars  ; 
Shuts  out  the  silver  cope  of  heaven, 

And  glooms  athwart  the  dying  stars. 


Cold,  sad,  and  spectral,  by  my  side, 

It  breathes  of  love's  ethereal  bloom — 
Of  bridal  memories,  long  affied 

To  the  dread  silence  of  the  tomb  : 
Sweet,  cloistered  memories,  that  the  heart 

Shuts  close  within  its  chalice  cold  ; 
Faint  perfumes,  that  no  more  dispart 

From  the  bruised  lily's  floral  fold. 


"  My  soul  is  weary  of  her  life ;" 

My  heart  sinks  with  a  slow  despair  ; 
The  solemn,  star-lit  hours  are  rife 

With  phantasy  ;  the  noontide  glare, 
And  the  cool  morning,  fancy  free, 

Are  false  with  shadows  ;  for  the  day 
Brings  no  blithe  sense  of  verity, 

Nor  wins  from  twilight  thoughts  away. 


144  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

4 

Oh,  bathe  me  in  the  Lethean  stream, 
And  feed  me  on  the  lotus  flowers  ; 

Shut  out  this  false,  bewildering  dream, 
This  memory  of  departed  hours  ! 

Sweet  haunting  dream  !  so  strangely  fair- 
So  veiled  in  shadowy,  soft  regrets — 

So  steeped  in  sadness,  like  the  air 
That  lingers  when  the  day-star  sets  ! 


The  Future  can  no  charm  confer, 

My  heart's  deep  solitudes  to  break  ; 
No  angel's  foot  again  shall  stir 

The  waters  of  that  silent  lake. 
I  wander  in  pale  dreams  away, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 
To  follow  still  that  failing  ray, 

For  ever  near,  yet  oh  how  far ! 


145 


A   DAY  OF   THE   INDIAN   SUMMER 


"Yet  one  more  smile,  departing  distant  sun,. 
Ere  o'er  the  frozen  earth  the  loud  winds  run^ 
And  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare." 

BBYANT. 


A  day  of  golden  beauty  ! — Through  the  night 
The  hoar-frost  gathered,  o'er  each  leaf  and  spray 
Weaving  its  filmy  network  ;  thin  and  bright, 
And  shimmeiing  like  silver  in  the  ray 
Of  the  soft,  sunny  morning;  turf  and  tree 
Pranct  in  its  delicate  embroidery, 
And  every  withered  stump  and  mossy  stone, 
With  gems  encrusted  and  with  seed-pearl  sown  ; 
11 


146  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

While  in  the  hedge  the  frosted  berries  glow, 
The  scarlet  holly  and  the  purple  sloe, 
And  all  is  gorgeous,  fairy-like  and  frail 
As  the  famed  gardens  of  the  Arabian  tale. 

How  soft  and  still  the  autumnal  landscape  lies. 
Calmly  outspread  beneath  the  smiling  skies  ; 
As  if  the  earth,  in  prodigal  array 
Of  gems  and  broidered  robes,  kept  holiday  ; 
Her  harvest  yielded  and  her  work  all  done, 
Basking  in  beauty  'neath  the  Autumn  sun! 

Yet  once  more,  through  the  soft  and  balmy  day, 

Up  the  brown  hill-side,  by  the  woodland  way, 

Far  let  us  rove  ;  through  dreamy  solitudes 

Where  "Autumn's  smile  beams  through  the  yellow 

woods ;" 

:Fondly  retracing  each  sweet,  summer  haunt 
And  sylvan  pathway  ;  where  the  sunbeams  slant 
Through  yonder  copse,  kindling  the  yellow  stars 
Of  the  witch-hazel  with  their  golden  bars ; 
Or,  lingering  down  this  dim  and  shadowy  lane, 
Where  still  the  damp  sod  wears  an  emerald  stain, 


A    DAY    OF   THE    INDIAN    SUMMER.  147 

Though  ripe  brown  nuts  hang  clustering  in  the  hedge 

And  the  rude  barberry,  o'er  yon  rocky  ledge, 

Droops  with  its  pendant  corals.     When  the  showers 

Of  April  clothed  this  winding  path  with  flowers, 

Here  oft  we  sought  the  violet,  as  it  lay 

Buried  in  beds  of  moss  and  lichens  grey.; 

And  still  the  aster  greets  us,  as  we  pass, 

With  her  faint  smile  ;  among  the  withered  grass 

Beside  the  way,  lingering  as  loth  of  heart, 

Like  me,  from  these  sweet  solitudes  to  part. 


Now  seek  we  the  dank  borders  of  the  stream, 

Where  the  tall  fern-tufts  shed  a  tawny  gleam 

Over  the  water  from  their  saffron  plumes, 

And,  clustering  near,  the  modest  gentian  blooms 

Lonely  around  ;  hallowed  by  sweetest  song, 

The  last  and  loveliest  of  the  floral  throng. 

Yet  here  we  may  not  linger,  for  behold 

Where  the  stream  widens,  like  a  sea  of  gold 

Outspreading  far  before  us  ;  all  around 

Steep,  wooded  heights  and  sloping  uplands  bound 

The  sheltered  scene ;  along  the  distant  shore 

Through  colored  woods  the  glinting  sunbeams  pour, 


148  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Touching  their  foliage  with  a  thousand  shades 
And  hues  of  beauty,  as  the  red  light  fades 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  fleecy  shroud, 
Or,  through  the  rifted  silver  of  the  cloud, 
Pours  down  a  brighter  gleam.     Gray  willows  lave 
Their  pendant  branches  in  the  crystal  wave,. 
And  slender  birch-trees  o'er  its  banks  incline, 
Whose  tallr  slight  stems  across  the  water  shine 
Like  shafts  of  silver ; — there  the  tawny  elm, — 
The  fairest  subject  of  the  sylvan  realm, — 
The  tufted  pine-tree  and  the  cedar  dark, 
And  the  young  chestnut,  its  smooth,  polished  bark 
Gleaming  like  porphyry  in  the  yellow  light, 
The  dark  brown  oak  and  the  rich  maple,  dight 
In  robes  of  scarlet ;  all  are  standing  there 
So  still,  so  calm,  in  the  softr  misty  air, 
That  not  a  leaf  is  stirring — not  a  sound 
Startles  the  deep  repose  that  broods  around ; 
Save  when  the  robin's  melancholy  song 
Is  heard  amid  the  coppice,  and  along 
The  sunny  side  of  yonder  moss-grown  wall 
That  skirts  our  path,  the  cricket's  chirping  call, 


A    DAY    OF    THE    INDIAN   SUMMER.  149 

Or,  the  fond  murmur  of  the  drowsy  bee 

O'er  some  lone  flowret  on  the  sunny  lea : 

And,  heard  at  intervals,  a  pattering  sound 

Of  ripened  acorns  rustling  to  the  ground 

Through  the  crisp,  withered  leaves. — How  lonely  all, 

How  calmly  beautiful !     Long  shadows  fall 

More  darkly  o'er  the  wave  as  day  declines, 

Yet  from  the  west  a  deeper  glory  shines ; 

While  every  crested  hill  and  rocky  height 

Each  moment  varies  in  the  kindling  light 

To  some  new  form  of  beauty  ;  changing  through 

All  shades  and  colors  of  the  rainbow's  hue, 

tl  The  last  still  loveliest/'  till  the  gorgeous  day 

Melts  in  a  flood  of  golden  light  away  ; 

And  all  is  o'er.     Before  to-morrow's  sun 

Cold  winds  may  rise  and  shrouding  shadows  dun 

Obscure  the  scene ;  yet  shall  these  fading  hues 

And  fleeting  forms  their  loveliness  transfuse 

Into  the  mind — and  memory  shall  burn 

The  painting  in  on  her  enamelled  urn 

In  undecaying  colors.     When  the  blast 

Hurtles  around  and  snows  are  gathering  fast, 


J50  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

When  musing1  sadly  by  the  twilight  hearth, 

Or  lonely  wandering  through  life's  crowded  path, 

Its  quiet  beauty,  rising  through  the  gloom, 

Shall  soothe  the  languid  spirits  and  illume 

The  drooping  fancy — winning  back  the  soul 

To  cheerful  thoughts  through  nature's  sweet  control. 


151 


SHE   BLOOMS   NO   MORE. 


"  Oh  primavera,  gioventu  dell'  anno, 

Bella  madre  di  fieri, 

Tu  torni  ben,  ma  teco 

Non  tornani  i  sereni 

E  fortunati  di  delle  mi  gioge." 

GUARIXI. 


I  dread  to  see  the  summer  sun 
Come  glowing  up  the  sky, 

And  early  pansies,  one  by  one, 
Opening  the  violet  eye. 


Again  the  fair  azalia  bows 
Beneath  her  snowy  crest  ; 

In  yonder  hedge  the  hawthorn  blows, 
The  robin  builds  her  nest ; 


152  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  tulips  lift  their  proud  tiars, 
The  lilac  waves  her  plumes  ; 

And,  peeping  through  my  lattice-bars, 
The  rose-acacia  blooms. 


But  she  can  bloom  on  earth  no  more, 
Whose  early  doom  I  mourn  ; 

Nor  Spring  nor  Summer  can  restore 
Our  flower,  untimely  shorn. 


She  was  our  morning  glory, 
Our  primrose,  pure  and  pale, 

Our  little  mountain  daisy, 
Our  lily  of  the  vale. 


Now  dim  as  folded  violets, 

Her  eyes  of  dewy  light ; 
And  her  rosy  lips  have  mournfully 

Breathed  out  their  last  good-night. 


SHE    BLOOMS    NO   MORE.  153 

'Tis  therefore  that  I  dread  to  see 

The  glowing  Summer  sun  ; 
And  the  balmy  blossoms  on  the  tree, 

Unfolding  one  by  one. 


154 


ON  A  MAGDALEN  BY  CARLO  DOLCE. 


Though  every  line  of  that  sweet,  thoughtful  face 

Seems  touched  by  sorrow  to  a  softer  grace ; 

Though  o'er  thy  cheek's  young  bloom  a  blight  hath 

passed, 

And  dimmed  its  pensive  beauty — from  thine  eye 
With  the  soft  gloom  of  gathering  tears  o'ercast, 
Doth  love  shine  forth,  o'er  all,  triumphantly ; 
A  light  which  shame  nor  sorrow  could  impair, 
Unquenched,  undimmed,  through  years  of  lone  despair. 

Oh  love,  immortal  love  !  not  all  in  vain 

The  young  heart  wastes  beneath  life's  weary  chain, 

Filled  with  thy  bright  ideal — whose  excess 

Of  beauty  mocks  our  utter  loneliness ; 

The  weary  bark,  long  tossing  on  the  shore, 

Shall  find  its  haven  when  the  storm  is  o'er  ; 

The  wandering  bee  its  hive,  the  bird  its  nest, 

And  the  lone  heart  of  love  in  heaven  its  home  of  rest. 


155 


TO 


Thine  is  the  hope  that  knows  no  fear, 

The  patient  heart  and  true  ; 
Whose  wrongs  but  make  the  right  more  dear, 

Whose  love  no  loss  may  rue. 


Sometimes  a  soft  and  sad  surprise — 
A  pitying  angel,  passion  free, 

Looks  earthward,  from  thy  tender  eyes, 
Upon  our  frail  humanity. 

Thy  calm  brow  speaks  a  nature  true, 
A  marble  constancy  of  soul, 

A  heart  that  can  its  dreams  subdue 
To  wisdom's  passionless  control. 


, 


156  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Thine  eye  hath  the  serenity 
By  Raphael  to  the  virgin  given, 

And  from  its  blue  benignity 
Looks  out  the  holy  light  of  heaven. 


157 


MORNING   AFTER  A   STORM. 


The  wan  and  melancholy  stars 
Are  fading  with  the  fading  gloom, 

And,  through  the  orient's  cloudy  bars, 
I  see  the  rose  of  morning  bloom. 


All  flushed,  and  fairer  for  the  storm, 
It  opens  on  our  vernal  skies, 

Divinely  beautiful  and  warm, 
As  on  the  hills  of  Paradise. 


And  on  its  breast  a  shining  spark, 
Like  a  bright  drop  of  morning  dew, 

Lies  glittering  on  the  rosy  dark, 

Then  melts  and  mingles  with  the  blue. 


158  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Sweet  morning  star  !  thy  silver  beams, 
Foretell  a  fairer  life  to  come  ; 

Arouse  the  sleeper  from  his  dreams 
And  call  the  wandering  spirit  home. 


My  soul,  ascending  like  a  lark, 
Would  follow  on  thine  airy  flight ; 

And  like  thy  little  diamond  spark, 
Dissolve  into  the  realms  of  light. 


159 


TO 


Eva,  thy  beauty  comes  to  me 
To  solace  and  to  save  ; 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery, 
A  beacon  o'er  the  wave, 
A  star  above  the  jasper  sea, 
A  hope  beyond  the  grave. 


Oft,  when  thy  harp-tones,  wild  and  sweet, 
The  waves  of  passion  move, 
Methinks  pale  Sappho's  songs  I  hear 
Murmuring  of  Phaon's  love — 
Pale  Sappho's  passion  songs  I  hear 
Lamenting  her  lost  love  : 


160  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

But  in  those  tender,  thoughtful  eyes, 

That  look  so  far  away, 

A  pleading  Pysche  bids  me  rise 

To  realms  of  purer  day — 

A  Psyche  soaring  to  the  skies, — 

To  realms  of  perfect  day. 


161 


FLORALIE. 


All  the  star-flowers  on  the  hill 
Nod  their  sweet  heads  wearily ; 

Through  the  sad  September  day,. 
To  my  lonely  heart  they  say,. 
Floralie  is  far  away. 


All  the  little  birds  that 
In  the  copse  so  cheerily, 

Fluttering  from  spray  to  spray, 
Seem  in  mournful  notes  to  say, 
Floralie  is  far  away — far  away. 

12 


162  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

All  the  morning  stars  that  look 

Through  the  dawn  so  drearily- 
Turning  from  the  joyless  day — 
By  their  sadness  seem  to  say, 
Floral ie  is  far  away — 
Far  away — far,  far  away. 


163 


STANZAS   WITH  A  BRIDAL  RIN'G 


The  young  moon  hides  her  virgin  heart 

Within  a  ring  of  gold  ; 
So  doth  this  little  cycle  all 

My  bosom's  love  enfold, 
And  tell  the  tale,  that  from  my  lips, 

Seems  ever  half  untold  j 
Like  the  rich  legend  of  the  East, 

That  weaves  and  interweaves        a 
Its  linked  sweetness,  or  the  rose  k 

That  hath  a  hundred  leaves. 


164  MiicBuaNiout  romns. 

This  Ulile  (airy  taliaroan 

Shall  love'i  aerene  elyaium 
No  hope  ahall  paaa  its  rojaiio  round, 

And  all  within  be  holy  ground : 
And  here,  «a  in  the  elfin  ring 

N     ere  !>urie»  dtuoe  by  lUght, 
The  green  ouea  of  the  heart 

Shall  keep  their  terdur*  hiight, 
And  hope,  within  this  magto  round, 

Still  hlotaon  In  delight. 


OH  FABRIC'S  CHARM  LAMP 


bBtfeTOTb-p,! 


fetefcfiy 
oftkela. 


166 


SON  G . 


I  bade  thee  stay.     Too  well  I  know 
The  fault  was  mine — mine  only  : 

I  dared  not  think  upon  the  past 
All  desolate  and  lonely. 


I  feared  in  memory  'a  silent  air 
Too  sadly  to  regret  thee — 

Feared  in  the  night  of  my  despair 
I  could  not  all  forget  thee. 


Yet  go — ah  go  !  those  pleading  eyes — 
Those  low,  sweet  tones,  appealing 

From  heart  to  heart — ah,  dare  I  trust 
That  passionate  revealing. 


SONG.  167 

For  ah,  those  dark  and  pleading  eyes 

Evoke  too  keen  a  sorrow — 
A  pang  that  will  not  pass  away, 

With  thy  wild  vows,  to-morrow. 


A  love  immortal  and  divine 
Within  my  heart  is  waking : 

Its  dream  of  anguish  and  despair 
It  owns  not  but  in  breaking. 


168 


THE    DRAMA. 


SPOKEN  AT  THE  OPENING  OP  THE  THEATEE  IN   PROVIDENCE, 
NOVEMBER  27,  1838. 


What  new  enchantment  hovers  in  the  air  ? 

Soft  music  breathes  and  festal  torches  glare ; 

A  roseate  light  illumes  the  storied  wall, 

And  youth  and  beauty  throng  the  lofty  hall. 

Lo,  where  the  Drama,  through  the  shades  of  night, 

Bursts  in  soft  splendor  on  the  ravished  sight ; 

Here  lurks  Thalia  with  bewildering  glance, 

In  the  gay  masque  of  Folly  or  Romance  ; 

There  proud  Melpomene,  in  pall  and  plume, 

Trails  her  imperial  purples  through  the  gloom. 

Immortal  sisters  in  Art's  fairy  train, 

Long  lost,  long  mourned,  resume  your  genial  reign  ! 


THE    DRAMA.  169 

Can  we  forget  when  first  in  childhood's  hour, 
Our  footsteps  sought  your  vision-haunted  bower  ? 
When  trembling,  wondering  'mid  the  enraptured  throng, 
We  quaffed  the  tide  of  eloquence  and  song ; 
While,  stood  revealed,  the  creatures  of  our  dream, 
Bright,  breathing,  palpable !  scarce  could  we  deem 
That  earth  confessed  such  beauty ; — to  abide 
With  these  were  life — vain  shadows  all  beside. 
O  cold  the  hearts  that  from  such  'witching  sway 
Could  turn  unmoved  and  passionless  away. 


Yet,  though  less  genial  prove  our  sordid  age 
To  Art's  bright  reign  than  when  the  Grecian  stage 
Enthroned  the  Drama's  triumph  and  her  pride, 
To  sacred  rights  and  royal  deeds  allied ; — 
When  priests  and  scholars  sought  her  scenic  halls 
And  conquering  heroes  gathered  to  her  walls, 
While  the  vast  area  of  her  temples  saw 
Tumultuous  Athens  hushed  in  breathless  awe ; 
Still  do  her  structures  rise,  her  altars  blaze 
Where  late  the  savage  tracked  the  pathless  maze  ; 
By  many  a  stormy  river  of  the  West, 
By  many  a  lake  that  stays  its  mountain  guest, 


170  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Far  through  the  wild  her  festal  notes  are  borne 
Ere  fade  the  echoes  of  the  huntsman's  horn. 


Oft  when  the  wint'ry  storms  shall  hurtle  round, 

Or  silent  snow-flakes  print  the  frozen  ground, 

When  the  cold  rain  comes  rattling  on  the  blast, 

And  mantling  clouds  night's  blazing  host  o'ercast, 

Here  shall  we  sit,  in  this  enchanted  hall, 

Where  breathing  thoughts  and  burning  words  enthral, 

Regardless  of  the  cold  world's  sordid  strife, 

And  all  the  hollow  mimicries  of  life, 

Where  vainer  actors  idler  pageants  play, 

And  wear  their  masks  in  the  broad  eye  of  day. 


Here  shall  we  see  again,  with  martial  stalk, 
« The  buried  majesty  of  Denmark '  walk  ; 
Macbeth  shall  shudder  at  the  ghost  of  crime, 
Nor  spoil,  for  us,  '  the  pleasure  of  the  time.' 
Here  fair  Hermione,  long  tranced  to  stone — 
Fixed  like  a  statue  on  her  marble  throne — 
Descending  from  her  pedestal,  shall  move 
And  breathe  and  tremble  at  the  voice  of  love. 


THE    DRAMA, 


171 


Here  royal  Katherine,  love's  sweet  claim  denied, 
Shall  plead  the  rights  of  an  imperial  bride  ; 
And  with  such  haughty  eloquence  inspire, 
Our  'drops  of  tears  shall  turn  to  sparks  of  fire.' 

Manhood  shall  here  cast  off  earth's  coiling  care, 
And  weary  Age  remember  life  was  fair ; 
Entranced  and  spell-bound  by  her  potent  sway 
Who  '  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play' — 
Exulting,  trembling,  as  her  accents  flow 
In  varying  strains  of  triumph  or  of  woe — 
Now  decked  in  smiles,  and  now  her  brow  o'erfraught 
With  the  pale  cast  of  melancholy  thought. 

Far  through  the  twilight  vistas  of  the  past, 
Where  gathering  years  their  cloudy  mantles  cast, 
Oft  turns  her  eagle  eye,  and,  at  its  glance, 
The  shadows  vanish  from  that  drear  expanse — 
Lo,  at  her  gaze,  night  melteth  into  day, 
And  the  dark  mist  of  ages  rolls  away  I 
She  hath  '  called  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,' 
Roused  kings  and  heroes  from  their  dreamless  sleep, 


172  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Restored  the  scenes  of  a  chivalrous  age 
Where  knightly  forms  heroic  conflicts  wage ; — 
The  victor's  triumph  on  the  ensanguined  field, 
The  plume,  the  pennon,  and  the  bazoned  shield  ; 
Bade  the  dead  lover's  clay-cold  bosom  glow, 
And  the  slain  warrior  meet  once  more  his  foe  ; 
And  caused  them,  for  a  night,  on  earth  to  roam, 
Then  pass  like  spectres  to  their  silent  home. 


And  now  she  comes  with  all  her  shadowy  train 
To  hold  her  court  within  this  gorgeous  fane  ; 
Here  her  bright  banner  fearlessly  unfurls, 
Nor  heeds  the  pointless  shaft  the  bigot  hurls. 
She  comes  in  living  beauty  to  restore 
The  wondrous  deeds  of  legendary  lore, 
Or,  in  light  vaudevilles  and  comic  mimes, 
To  paint  *  the  form  and  pressure  of  the  times  ;' 
With  lofty  themes  to  rouse  the  languid  heart, 
Or  stern  reproof  with  subtle  grace  impart, — 
To  wake  the  noble  love  of  well-earned  fame 
And  teach  the  glory  of  a  deathless  name. 


THE    DRAMA.  173 

She  shows  how  heroes  lived  and  martyrs  died, 

In  life  dishonored  and  in  death  denied,  * 

Yet  nerved  the  powers  of  death  and  hell  to  scorn 

When  holy  Honor  sounds  her  bugle  horn. 

Such  themes  new  vigor  to  the  heart  supply, 

Flush  every  cheek  and  light  up  every  eye. 

Whether  in  gorgeous  drapery  she  is  seen, 

Moving  before  us  like  an  empire's  queen — 

Or  clothed  in  all  the  majesty  of  woe, 

Bids  beauty's  tears  like  molten  diamonds  glow — 

Or  wreathed  in  smiles,  with  soft,  seducing  glance, 

Makes  the  warm  life-blood  through  the  pulses  dance — 

Still,  ever  beautiful,  she  meets  the  sight, 

Taking  all  shapes  to  furnish  new  delight, 

Forever  changing,  yet  forever  true 

To  one,  fond  aim — approving  smiles  from  you. 

Long  may  those  smiles  our  virgin  temple  grace, 

And  SHAKSPEARE'S  spirit  hallow  all  the  place. 


174 


ROGER  WILLIAMS. 


WRITTEN    FOR    THE    FIRST    ANNUAL  CELEBRATION    OF    THE 
RHODE-ISLAND  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY,  JANUARY,   13,  1847. 


Now,  while  the  echoing  cannon's  roar 
Rocks  our  far  frontal  towers, 

And  bugle  blast  and  trumpet's  blare 
Float  o'er  the  "  Land  of  Flowers  ;" 


While  our  bold  eagle  spreads  his  wing 

No  more  in  lofty  pride, 
But  sorrowing  sinks,  as  if  from  Heaven 

The  ensanguined  field  to  hide ; 


ROGER    WILLIAMS.  175 

Turn  we  from  war's  bewildering  blaze, 

And  conquest's  choral  song, 
To  the  still  voice  of  other  days, 

Long  heard, — forgotten  long. 


Listen  to  his  rich  words,  intoned 
To  songs  of  lofty  cheer, 

Who  in  the  howling  wilderness, 
Mid  forests  wild  and  drear ; 


Breathed  not  of  exile  nor  of  wrong, 
Through  the  long  winter  nights, 

But  uttered  in  exulting  song, 
The  soul's  unchartered  rights. 


Who  sought  the  oracles  of  God 
In  the  heart's  veiled  shrine, 

Nor  asked  the  monarch  nor  the  priest, 
His  sacred  laws  to  sign. 


176  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  brave,  high  heart  that  would  not  yield 

Its  liberty  of  thought, 
Far  o'er  the  melancholy  main, 

Through  bitter  trials  brought ; 


But,  to  a  double  exile  doomed, 
By  Faith's  pure  guidance  led — 

Through  the  dark  labyrinth  of  life, 
Held  fast  her  golden  thread. 


Listen !    The  music  of  his  dream 
Perchance  may  linger  still 

In  the  old  familiar  places 
Beneath  the  emerald  hill. 


The  wave-worn  rock  still  breasts  the  storm 

On  Seekonk's  lonely  side, 
Where  the  dusky  natives  hailed  the  bark 

That  bore  their  gentle  guide. 


ROGER   WILLIAMS.  177 

The  Spring  that  gushed  amid  the  wild 

In  music  on  his  ear, 
Still  pours  its  waters,  undefiled, 

The  fainting  heart  to  cheer. 


And  the  fair  cove,  that  slept  so  calm 
Beneath  o'ershadowing  hills, 

And  bore  the  exile's  evening  psalm 
Far  up  its  flowery  rills — 


The  wave  that  parted  to  receive 
The  pilgrim's  light  canoe, 

As  if  an  angel's  balmy  wing 
Had  stirred  its  waters  blue — 


What  though  the  fire-winged  courser's  breath 

Has  swept  its  cooling  tide, 
And  fast  before  its  withering  blast, 

The  rushing  wave  has  dried, 

13 


178  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Still,  narrowed  to  our  crowded  mart- 
A  fair  enchanted  mere — 

In  the  proud  city's  throbbing  heart 
It  sleeps  serene  and  clear. 


Or  turn  we  to  the  green  hill's  side  ; 

There,  with  the  spring-time  showers, 
The  white-thorn  o'er  a  nameless  grave, 

Rains  its  pale,  silver  flowers. 


Yet  memory  lingers  with  the  past, 

Nor  vainly  seeks  to  trace 
His  foot-prints  on  a  rock,  whence  time 

Nor  tempests  can  efface  ; 


Whereon  he  planted,  fast  and  deep, 

The  roof-tree  of  a  home 
"Wide  as  the  wings  of  Love  may  sweep, 

Free  as  her  thoughts  may  roam  j 


ROGER   WILLIAMS.  179 

Where,  through  all  time,  the  saints  may  dwell, 

And  from  pure  fountains  draw 
That  peace  which  passeth  human  thought, 

In  Liberty  and  Law. 


When  heavenward,  up  the  silver  stair 
Of  silence  drawn,  we  tread 

The  visioned  mount  that  looks  beyond 
The  Valley  of  the  Deader- 


Oh,  may  we  gather  to  our  hearts 
The  deeds  our  fathers  wrought, 

And  feed  the  perfumed  lamp  of  love 
In  the  cool  air  of  thought  : 


While  HOPE  shall  on  her  ANCHOR  lean, 

May  Memory  fondly  turn 
To  wreath  the  amaranth  and  the  palm 

Around  their  funeral  urn. 


180 


THE    CROSS. 


"  We  cannot  see  earth's  cruel  eyes 
When  ours  are  lifted  to  the  skies." 
ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 


Sad  memento  of  a  story 

Sorrowful  as  death  and  love — 
Mystic  symbol  of  a  glory 

Brightening  all  the  worlds  above  1 


From  the  holy  ensign  borrow, 
When  thy  soul  is  sad  and  lorn, 

Solace  in  that  mortal  sorrow 
By  the  immortal  spirit  borne ; 


THE    CROSS.  181 

Fairer  through  life's  cross  and  passion 

Shall  its  aureola  burn— 
To  a  loftier  resurrection 

From  its  lingering  sorrow  turn. 


Bind  the  symbol  on  thy  bosom  ; 

From  the  sharp  and  cruel  thorn, 
Rays  of  mystic  glory  blossom, 

Of  that  lingering  sorrow  borne. 


When  thy  lonely  heart  is  dreaming 
Of  a  love  on  earth  unfound, 

Think  upon  the  love  redeeming — 
On  the  soul  with  sorrow  crowned. 


In  lone  Gethsemanes  kneeling — 
By  the  loved  of  earth  betrayed-— 

Drink  the  bitter  cup  of  healing, 
Wait  the  morning  undismayed. 


182  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Bear,  in  holy  resignation, 

On  thy  heart  the  mystic  rood — 

Fill  with  heavenly  contemplation 
Earth's  dim  garden-solitude. 


Thus  the  solemn  calm,  enzoning 
Life's  wild  tumult,  shall  be  thine ; 

And  thy  trust  in  love  atoning 
Lift  thee  to  the  life  divine. 


SONNETS, 


SONNETS.  185 


TO  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


I. 

'  O  perpetui  fieri 
DelPeternaletizia!' 

IL  PARADISO. 

Tair  Sybil,  sitting  in  thy  «  House  of  Clouds,' 
Shrined,  like  some  solitary  star,  above 

dull,  cold  shadow  that  our  earth  enshrouds, 
How  oft  my  spirit  looks  to  thee  in  love  ! 
To  thy  '  Lost  Bower '  how  oft  in  dreams  returning, 

II  see  thee  standing  in  the  sylvan  room — 
See  the  red  sun-light  in  the  rose-cups  burning, 

And  the  sweet  blue-bells  nodding  through  the  gloom 
Again  I  hear  thy  grand  and  solemn  dirges 
*      To  the  dim  '  Gods  of  Hellas,'  like  the  breeze 

t'er  lone  savannas  sighing,  or  the  surges 
That  wash  the  sands  of  solitary  seas ; 
hen,  in  calm  waves  of  glory,  swells  the  strain, 
'  Christ  from  the  dead  hath  risen  and  shall  reign !  * 


186  SONNETS. 


II 


"Ad  una  vista 

D'un  gran  palazzo  Michol  ammirava 
Si  come  donna  dispettosa  e  trista." 

IL  PURGATORIO. 


Sometimes  I  see  thee,  pale  with  scorn  and  sorrow, 

At  a  great  palace  window,  looking  forth, 
To-day  on  plumed  Florentines — to-morrow 

Upon  the  stern  battalions -of  the  North  : 
Sometimes  o'er  little  children  bending  lowly, 

To  hear  their  cry,  in  the  dark  factories  drowned ; 
Ah,  then,  thy  pitying  brow  grows  sweet  and  holy, 

With  a  saint's  aureole  of  sorrow  crowned  ! 
But  most  I  love  thee  when  that  mystic  glory — 

Kindling  at  horrors  that  abhor  the  day — 
Sheds  a  wild,  stormy  splendor  o'er  the  story 

Of  the  dark  fugitive,  who  turned  away 
To  death's  cold  threshold,  calm  in  death's  disdain, 
From  the  '  White  Pilgrim's  Rock,'  beside  the  western 
main. 


SONNETS.  187 


III. 


"  Or  discendiamo  omai  a  maggior  pieta." 

L'lNFEBNO. 


Ay,  most  I  love  thee  when  thy  starry  song 

Stoops  to  the  plague-spot  that  we  dare  not  name, 
And  bears  with  burning  breath  the  envenomed  wrong — 

Our  country's  dark  inheritance  of  shame. 
When  our  blaspheming  synods  look  thereon, 

(Stifling  God's  law  and  Nature's  noble  ires 
With  the  cold  ashes  of  dead  council-fires,) 

That  Gorgon  Terror  chills  them  into  stone. 
Yet,  while  they  dream,  another  noble  heart, 

Serene  in  love's  grea*  light  and  woman's  ruth — 
A  woman,  loyal  to  God's  living  truth — 

Hath  uttered  calm,  clear  words  whose  rays  shall  dart 
Like  sunbeams  through  our  realm's  tartarean  gloom, 
Till  love's  own  holy  light  its  stygian  depths  illume. 


188  SONNETS. 


THE   GARDEN    MINSTER 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 


How  seems  this  garden,  with  its  depths  of  shade 

And  verdurous,  vaulted  aisles,  for  worship  made  ; 

Where  every  blossom  bows  its  head  in  prayer 

Or  swings  it  censer  on  the  silent  air ; 

Where  the  the  slow  footsteps  of  the  Summer  Hours 

From  dawn  till  dusk  descend  on  opening  flowers, 

And,  a&  they  pass,  with  light  and  shade  by  turns, 

Fill  the  cool  hollows  of  the  marble  urns. 

A  holy  rapture  thrills  me  while  I  gaze 

Up  the  blue  heavens  through  the  o'ershadowing  maze  ; 

Or  sit  long  hours  in  sweet  monastic  dreams, 

Where  o'er  its  rocky  bed  the  river  streams, 

In  the  lone  grotto,  dusky,  cool  and  dim, 

Where  ivies  cluster  round  the  fountain's  brim. 


SONNETS. 


TO   E.    O.   S. 


"  Eos,  fair  Goddess  of  the  Morn  !  whose  eyes 
Drive  back  night's  wandering  ghosts." 

HORNE'S  ORION. 


When  issuing  from  the  realms  of  *  Shadow  Land ' 

I  see  thee  mid  the  orient's  kindling  bloom, 

With  mystic  lilies  gleaming  in  thy  hand, 

Gathered  by  dream-light  in  the  dusky  gloom 

Of  bowers  enchanted — I  behold  again 

The  fabled  Goddess  of  the  Morning,  veiled 

In  fleecy  clouds.     Thy  cheek,  so  softly  paled 

With  memories  of  the  Night's  mysterious  reign, 

And  something  of  the  star-light,  burning  still 

In  thy  deep,  dreamy  eyes,  do  but  fulfil 

The  vision  more  divinely  to  my  thought : 

While  all  the  cheerful  hopes  enkindling  round  thee — 

Warm  hopes,  wherewith  thy  prescient  soul  hath  crowned 

thee — 
Are  with  the  breath  of  morning  fragrance  fraught. 


190 


SONNETS. 


A  NOVEMBER   LANDSCAPE. 


How  like  a  rich  and  gorgeous  picture  hung 

In  memory's  storied  hall,  seems  that  fair  scene 

O'er  which  long  years  their  mellowing  tints  have  flung. 

The  way-side  flowers  had  faded  one  by  one, 

Hoar  were  the  hills,  the  meadows  drear  and  dun — 

When  homeward,  wending,  'neath  the  dusky  screen 

Of  the  Autumnal  woods  at  close  of  day, 

As  o'er  a  pine-clad; Height  my  path  way  lay, 

Lo!  at  a  sudden  turnj  the  vale  below 

Lay  far  outspread,  all  flushed  with  purple  light ; 

Grey  rocks  and  umbered  woodfe  gave  back  the  glow 

Of  the  last  day-beams,  fading  into  night j 

While  down  the  glen  where  fair  Moshaussuck  flows 

With  all  its  kindling  lamps  the  distant  city  rose. 


SONNETS.  191 


WITHERED   FLOWERS. 


Remembrancers  of  happiness  !  to  me 

Ye  bring  sweet  thoughts  of  the  year's  purple  prime, 

Wild,  mingling  melodies  of  bird  and  bee, 

That  pour  on  summer  winds  their  silvery  chime — 

Of  balmy  incense,  burdening  all  the  air, 

From  flowers  that  by  the  sunny  garden  wall 

Bloomed  at  your  side, — nursed  into  beauty  there 

By  dews  and  silent  showers  :  but  these  to  all 

Ye  bring.     Oh  !  sweeter  far  than  these  the  spell 

Shrined  in  those  fairy  urns  for  me  alone ; 

For  me  a  charm  sleeps  in  each  honied  cell, 

Whose  power  can  call  back  hours  of  rapture  flown, 

To  the  sad  heart  sweet  memories  restore, 

Tones,  looks  and  words  of  love  that  may  return  no  more. 


192  SONNETS. 


REMEMBERED   MUSIC. 


Oh,  lonely  heart !  why  do  thy  pulses  beat 

To  the  hushed  music  of  a  voice  so  dear, 

That  all  sweet,  mournful  cadences  repeat 

Its  low,  bewildering  accents  to  thine  ear. 

Why  dost  thou  question  the  pale  stars  to  know 

If  that  rich  music  floats  upon  the  air, 

In  those  far  realms  where,  else,  their  fires  would  glow 

Forever  beautiful  to  thy  despair  ? — 

Trust  thou  in  God ;  for,  far  within  the  veil, 

Where  glad  hosannas  through  the  empyrean  roll, 

And  choral  anthems  of  the  angel's  hail 

With  hallelujah's  sweet  the  enfranchised  soul, — 

The  voice  that  sang  earth's  sorrow  through  earth's 

night, 
Shall  with  glad  seraphs  sing,  in  God's  great  light. 


I. 

TO 

Vainly  my  heart  had  with  thy  sorceries  striven : 
It  had  no  refuge  from  thy  love — no  Heaven 
But  in  thy  fatal  presence ; — from  afar 
It  owned  thy  power  and  trembled  like  a  star 
O'erfraught  with  light  and  splendor.     Could  I  deem 
How  dark  a  shadow  should  obscure  its  beam  1 — 
Could  I  believe  that  paia  could  ever  dwell 
Where  thy  bright  presence  cast  its  blissful  speJH 
Thou  wert  my  proud  palladium ; — could  I  fear 
The  avenging  Destinies  when  thou  wert  near  ? — 
Thou  wert  my  Destiny — thy  song,  thy  fame, 
The  wild  enchantments  clustering  round  thy  name, 
Were  my  soul's  heritage — its  royal  dower  ^— 
Its  glory  and  its  kingdom  and  its  power ! 
M 


194  SONNETS. 


II. 


When  first  I  looked  into  thy  glorious  eyes, 
And  saw — with  their  unearthly  beauty  pained — 
Heaven  deepening  within  heaven,  like  the  skies 
Of  autumn  nights  without  a  shadow  stained ; — 
I  stood  as  one  whom  some  strange  dream  enthralls ; 
For,  far  away,  in  some  lost  life  divine — 
Some  land  which  every  glorious  dream  recalls, 
A  spirit  looked  on  me  with  eyes  like  thine. 
E'en  now,  though  death  has  veiled  their  starry  light 
And  closed  their  lids  in  his  relentless  night — 
As  some  strange  dream,  remembered  in  a  dream, 
Again  I  see,  in  sleep,  their  tender  beam ; — 
Unfading  hopes  their  cloudless  azure  fill, 
Heaven  deepening  within  heaven,  serene  and  still. 


SONNETS.  195 


III. 


Oft  since  thine  earthly  eyes  have  closed  on  mine, 

Our  souls,  dim-wandering  in  the  hall  of  dreams, 

Hold  mystic  converse  on  the  life  divine, 

By  the  still  music  of  immortal  streams; 

And  oft  thy  spirit  tells  how  souls,  affied 

By  sovran  destinies,  no  more  can  part — 

How  death  and  hell  are  powerless  to  divide: 

Souls  whose  deep  lives  lie  folded  heart  in  heart. 

And  if,  at  times,  some  lingering  shadow  lies 

Heavy  upon  thy  path — some  haunting  dread — 

Then  do  I  point  thee  to  the  sacrifice 

Of  Him  who  did  his  holy  life-blood  shed 

For  thy  soul's  weal — the  faith  that  doth  approve 

In  death,  the  deathless  power  and  divine  life  of  Love. 


196  SONNETS. 


IV. 


We  met  beneath  September's  gorgeous  beams  : 
Long  in  my  *  house  of  life'  thy  star  had  reigned  ; — 
Its  mournful  splendor  trembled  through  my  dreams, 
Nor  with  the  night's  phantasmal  glories  waned. 
We  wandered  thoughtfully  o'er  golden  meads 
To  a  lone  woodland,  lit  by  starry  flowers, 
Where  a  wild,  solitary  pathway  leads 
Through  mouldering  sepulchres  and  cypress  boweri. 
A  dreamy  sadness  filled  the  autumnal  air ; — 
By  a  low,  nameless  grave  I  stood  beside  thee, 
My  heart  according  to  thy  murmured  prayer 
The  full,  sweet  answers  that  my  lips  denied  thee. 
O  mournful  faith,  on  (hat  dread  altar  sealed — 
Sad  dawn  of  love  in  realms  of  death  revealed ! 


SONNETS.  197 


V. 


On  our  lone  pathway  bloomed  no  earthly  hopes : — 
Sorrow  and  death  were  near  us,  as  we  stood 
Where  the  dim  forest,  from  the  upland  slopes, 
Swept  darkly  to  the  sea.     The  enchanted  wood 
Thrilled,  as  by  some  foreboding  terror  stirred  ; 
And  as  the  waves  broke  on  the  lonely  shore, 
In  their  low  monotone,  methought  I  heard 
A  solemn  voice  that  sighed  « Ye  meet  no  more.' 
There,  while  the  level  sunbeams  seemed  to  burn 
Through  the  long  aisles  of  red,  autumnal  gloom — 
Where  stately,  storied  cenotaphs  inurn 
Sweet  human  hopes,  too  fair  on  Earth  to  bloom — 
Was  the  bud  reaped,  whose  petals,  pure  and  cold, 
Sleep  on  my  heart  till  Heaven  the  flower  unfold. 


198  SONNETS. 


VI. 


If  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love, 
In  its  earth  solitude  grew  dark  with  fear, 
Lest  the  high  Sun  of  Heaven  itself  should  prove 
Powerless  to  save  from  that  phantasmal  sphere 
Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered — if  the  flowers 
That  pressed  around  thy  feet,  seemed  but  to  bloom 
In  lone  Gethsemanes,  through  starless  hours, 
When  all,  who  loved,  had  left  thee  to  thy  doom  : — 
Oh,  yet  believe,  that,  in  that  '  hollow  vale,' 
Where  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 
To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain — 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee  and  its  Heaven  forego 
Till  God's  great  love,  on  both,  one  hope,  one  Heaven 
bestow. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH, 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 


In  yonder  dim  and  pathless  wood 

Strange  sounds  are  heard  at  twilight  hour, 
And  peals  of  solemn  music  swell, 

As  from  some  minster's  lofty  tower. 
From  age  to  age  those  sounds  are  heard, 

Borne  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour; 
From  age  to  age,  no  foot  hath  found 

A  pathway  to  the  minster's  tower. 


Late,  wandering  in  that  ancient  wood, 
As  onward  through  the  gloom  I  trod, 

From  all  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  earth 
My  soul  ascended  to  its  God. 


202  TRANSLATIONS. 

When  lo,  in  the  hushed  wilderness 
I  heard,  far  off,  that  solemn  bell  : 

Still  heavenward  as  my  spirit  soared, 
Wilder  and  sweeter  rang  the  knell. 


While  thus  in  holy  musings  rapt, 

My  mind  from  outward  sense  withdrawn, 
Some  power  had  caught  me  from  the  earth, 

And  far  into  the  heavens  upborne — 
Methought  a  hundred  years  had  passed, 

In  mystic  visions  as  I  lay, 
When  suddenly  the  parting  clouds 

Seemed  opening  wide  and  far  away. 


No  midday  sun  its  glory  shed, — 

The  stars  were  shrouded  from  my  sight, — 
And  lo  !  majestic  o'er  my  head, 

A  minster  shone  in  solemn  light. 
High  through  the  lurid  heavens  it  seemed 

Aloft,  on  cloudy  wings,  to  rise, 
Till  all  its  pointed  turrets  gleamed, 

Far  flaming,  through  the  vaulted  skies  ; 


THE    LOST    CHURCH.  203 

The  bell,  with  full,  resounding  peal, 

Rang  booming  through  the  rocking  tower  : 
No  hand  had  stirred  its  iron  tongue, 

Slow  swaying  to  the  storm-wind's  power. 
My  bosom,  beating  like  a  bark 

Dashed  by  the  surging  ocean's  foam, 
I  trod,  with  faltering,  fearful  joy, 

The  mazes  of  the  mighty  dome. 


A  soft  light  through  the  oriel  streamed, 

Like  summer  moonlight's  golden  gloom  ; 
Far  through  the  dusky  arches  gleamed, 

And  filled  with  glory  all  the  room. 
Pale  sculptures  of  the  sainted  dead 

Seemed  waking  from  their  icy  thrall, 
And  many  a  glory-circled  head 

Smiled  sadly  from  the  storied  wall. 


Low  at  the  altar's  foot  I  knelt, 

Transfixed  with  awe,  and  dumb  with  dread, 
For  blazoned  on  the  vaulted  roof 

Were  heaven's  fiercest  glories  spread. 


204  TRANSLATIONS. 

Yet  when  I  raised  my  eyes  on«e  more, 
The  vaulted  roof  itself  was  gone; 

Wide  open  was  heaven's  lofty  door, 
And  every  cloudy  veil  withdrawn  ! 

What  visions  burst  upon  my  soul — 

What  joys,  unutterable,  there, 
In  waves  on  waves,  forever  roll 

Like  music  through  the  pulseless  air — 
These  never  mortal  tongue  may  tell  : 

Let  him  who  fain  would  prove  their  power, 
Pause  when  he  hears  that  solemn  knell 

Float  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour. 


205 


LEONORA. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  BURGER. 


From  heavy  dreams,  sad  Leonore 

Rose  with  the  dawning  day ; 
Her  heart  oppressed  by  boding  fears 

At  Wilhelm's  long  delay. 
With  Frederic's  force  her  soldier  went 

To  meet  his  country's  foe  ; 
And  since,  no  tidings  had  he  sent, 

To  tell  of  weal  or  woe. 


206  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  king  and  the  proud  empress-queen, 

Weary  of  endless  war, 
At  length  renounce  their  fruitless  strife 

And  welcome  peace  once  more. 
The  weary,  toil-worn  warriors  come, 

Rejoicing  on  their  way  ; 
With  blare  of  trump  and  beat  of  drum, 

In  oaken  garlands  gay. 


And  every  way-side,  every  path, 

Is  thronged  with  eager  feet, 
Of  friends  and  kindred,  hurrying  forth 

The  coming  host  to  meet. 
The  lover  greets  his  plighted  bride  ; 

But  ah  !  for  poor  Lenore, — 
No  greeting  to  her  pallid  lips 

Shall  bring  the  roses  more. 


She  wandered  up  and  down  the  road, 

To  frantic  fears  a  prey, 
And  vainly  questioned  all  that  came, 

Throughout  that  weary  day  ; 


LEONORA.  207 

• 


The  army  now  had  all  passed  by  ! 

She  tore  her  raven  hair, 
She  threw  herself  upon  the  earth, 

In  desolate  despair. 


The  mother  folds  her  to  her  heart 

And  seeks  with  counsels  vain 
Some  word  of  comfort  to  impart 

To  soothe  her  darling's  pain. 
"Oh  mother  !  what  is  lost  is  lost ! 

Now  Earth  and  Heaven  may  go. 
There  is  no  pitying  God  in  Heaven — 

No  love  for  aught  below." 


"  Peace,  peace  !  who  knows  the  Father's  love, 

Knows  he  can  aid  impart ; — 
The  blessed  sacrament  shall  soothe 

Thy  pierced  and  bleeding  heart." 
"  No  balm  upon  this  burning  heart 

The  sacrament  can  pour  ! — 
No  sacrament,  to  love  and  life, 

The  cold,  cold  dead  restore." 


208  TRANSLATIONS. 

i 

"Oh  mother,  would  my  lamp  of  life 

Would  sink  in  endless  night  I 
How  shall  I  loathe  the  midnight  gloom 

And  loathe  the  morning  light ! 
And  what,  to  me,  is  Heaven's  bliss, 

And  what,  to  me,  is  Hell ; 
With  him,  with  him  is  happiness, 

And  oh !  without  him,  Hell ! 


**  Perchance  dear  child,  he  loves  no  more, 

And  wandering  far  and  wide, 
Hath  sought,  upon  a  foreign  shore, 

To  wed  a  foreign  bride." 
"O  mother  !  what  is  lost  is  lost ! 

There  is  no  pitying  love — 
No  joy  in  life,  no  balm  in  deatl) — 

No  hope  in  Heaven  above. 


Go  out,  life's  light — forever  out ; 

Die,  die,  in  night  and  dread ! 
There  is  no  pitying  God  in  Heaven  ; 

Would,  would  that  I  were  dead!" 


LEONORA.  209 


Thus  raged  the  frenzy  of  despair 
Within  her  burning  brain — 

Thus  with  God's  righteous  providence 
She  strove  in  anguish  vain. 


She  beat  her  breast  and  tore  her  hair 

Till  the  long  day  was  done — 
Till  in  the  west  the  silent  stars 

Came  twinkling  one  by  one. 
She  sat  within  her  lonely  room 

Nor  marked  the  dying  day, 
Till  the  moon's  light,  o'er  tower  and  height,. 

In  silver  glory  lay. 


When  lo !  she  hears  a  courser's  hoofs 

Ring  on  the  frozen  ground: 
A  knight  alights  before  the  gate — 

His  clanging  arms  resound. 
And  hark  !  a  low  and  soft  '  kling  ling' 

Sounds  through  the  silent  room  ! 
And  hark  !  a  well-known  voice  she  hears 

Beside  her  in  the  gloom  ! 
15 


210  TRANSLATIONS. 

•'  What  ho !  Lenore  ;  unbar  the  door ; — 

Art  watching  or  asleep  ? — 
Doth  my  fair  bride  forget  her  vows, 

Or  fear  her  vows  to  keep  ?  " 
"  Ah  Wilhelm,  thou  !  so  late  at  night? 

Oh,  I  have  watched  and  wept; 
What  from  thy  Leonora's  side, 

So  long  her  love  hath  kept !" 


"  From  far  Hungarian  fields  I  come 

On  my  lone  midnight  ride, 
To  bear  thee  to  thy  distant  home ; 

Away,  away  my  bride  !  " 
"  The  wind  blows  thro'  the  hawthorn  bush  ; 

It  whistles  loud  and  shrill ; 
Come  in,  and  warm  thee  in  my  arms ; 

Ah  !  why  so  cold  and  still  ?  " 


11  Let  the  wind  through  the  fcawthofa  Wow, 

Or  howl  across  the  mere ; 
The  black  horse  paws,  and  clank  the  spurs, 

I  dare  not  linger  here. 


LBONORA.  '211 

Come,  don  thy  snow-white  robes  with  speed, 

And  swiftly  mount  behind  ; 
We  ride  a  hundred  leagues  ere  day, 

Our  bridal  bed  to  find!" 


"And  must  we  ride  a  hundred  leagues 

To  reach  our  bridal  bower? 
Hark  !  even  now,  the  booming  bell, 

Tolls  out  the  midnight  hour." 
"Ha!  dost  thou  fear? — the  moon  shines  fclear ; 

Soon  will  our  course  be  sped ! 
I  bear  thee  to  our  bridal  home 

And  to  our  bridal  bed." 


Ah !  tell  me  wbere  the  bridal  hall, 

And  where  the  couch  is  spread  ?" 
,  far  from  here;  cold,  narrow,  drear, 

Lies  our  low  marriage  bed ! " 
44  Hast  room  for  me  ? "     "  For  thee  and  m 

Come,  busk  thee,  darling  bride ; 
The  wedding  guests  are  waiting, 

The  door  stands  open  wide." 


212  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  maiden  donned  her  bridal  robes ; 

On  the  black  steed  she  sprung, 
And  round  the  knight  her  snowy  arms 

In  trembling  silence  flung. 
And  on  they  gallop,  fast  and  far, 

Nor  mount  nor  stream  their  course  can  bar ; 
While  horse  and  rider  pnnt  and  blow  ; 

The  fire-sparks  flashing  as  they  go. 


,  The  crags  shoot  by — the  castles  fly — 

The  rattling  hoofs  resound  ; 
The  bridges  thunder  'neath  their  tread, 

And  rings  the  hollow  ground. 
"  Ha !  doth  my  Leonora  fear 

With  her  true  love  to  ride  ? 
The  midnight  moon  shines  cold  and  clear — 

The  dead  ride  swift,  mv  bride !  " 


Hark !  wailings  float  upon  the  air, 

And  hollow  dirges  ring  ! 
Why  tolls  the  bell  that  solemn  knell, 

Why  flaps  the  raven's  wing? 


LEONORA.  2T3 

Lo,  sweeping  o'er  the  lonely  moor, 

A  dark  funereal  train  ! 
They  chaunt  a  requiem  o'er  the  bier — 

A  hoarse,  sepulchral  strain. 


11  Bury  your  dead  when  midnight's  past, 

With  wild  lament  and  prayer  ; 
To-night  I  wed  a  fearless  bride, 

Our  banquet  ye  shall  share. 
Come  priest  and  choir,  and  mourners,  all, 

Come  crone  the  marriage  song  ; 
Come  priest,  and  bless  the  bridal  bed, 

And  join  the  merry  throng." 


Now  fades  into  the  dusky  air 

The  coffin  and  the  pall ; 
They  sweep  along,  a  ghostly  throng, 

The  mourners,  priest  and  all ; 
And  faster,  faster,  still  they  speed, 

O'er  wild  morass  and  moonlight  mead, 
While  horse  and  rider  pant  and  blow, 

The  fire  sparks  flashing  as  they  go! 


2:14  TRANSLATIONS. 

How  swiftly,  on  the  right  and  left. 

The  mountains  hurry  by  ; 
How  swiftly,  on  the  right  and  left, 

Town,  tower,  and  forest  fly! 
"  Doth  my  love  fear  ?  the  moon  shines  clear 

Ah  ha !  dost  fear  the  dead  1 
The  dead  ride  swift — hurrah  !  hurrah  !  " 

"  Ah,  speak  not  of  the  dead  !" 


Now,  where  the  moonbeams  faintly  fall, 

Yon  frantic  rabble  see ; 
How  fearfully  they  wheel  and  spin, 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree ! 
<{  Halloo  !  halloo  !  ye  grisly  crew, 

Come  here,  and  follow  me ; 
Around  us  prance  a  fetter-dance,, 

And  quit  the  gallows-tree." 


And  now,  across  the  moonlit  waste, 

They  hurry  on  behind  ; 
A  sound  like  dry  and  withered  leaves, 

Low  rustling  in  the  wind. 


LEONORA.  215 

And  onward,  onward  still  they  speed, 
Nor  rock  nor  stock  their  course  impede  ; 

While  horse  and  rider  pant  and  blow, 
The  fire-sparks  flashing  as  they  go ! 


Fast  flies  the  quiet  moon-light  scene, 

Fast,  fast  and  far,  it  flies  ; 
Fast  fly  the  fleecy  clouds  above, 

And  fast  the  starry  skies. 
"  Ha  !  dost  thou  fear? — the  moon  shines  clear  ; 

And  fast  the  dead  can  ride." 
11  Oh,  name  the  dead  no  more  !  "  "  Ah,  ha ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  bride  ? 


Methinks  I  smell  the  morning  air, 

And  hark  !  the  cock  doth  crow  ! 
Then  onward  speed,  my  trusty  steed  ! 

Haste!  haste  !  our  sands  run  low. 
Our  race  is  run,  our  course  is  done, 

And  we  are  at  the  goal ; 
Swift  ride  the  dead — hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Come  priest,  bind  soul  to  soul !  " 


216  TRANSLATIONS. 

Up  to  a  gloomy  portal  now, 

With  slackened  rein  they  ride ; 
When  lo !  the  massive  bar  and  bolt 

Back  from  their  staples  glide. 
And  as  the  dark  and  sounding  door 

Upon  its  hinges  turns, 
She  sees,  in  the  moon's  glimmering  light, 

Grey  tombs  and  mouldering  urns. 


Suddenly,  from  the  rider's  form, 

By  some  unearthly  spell, 
The  welded  armor,  piece  by  piece 

In  shivered  fragments  fell. 
She  sees  a  hideous  skeleton, 

A  ghastly  Horror,  stand 
Before  her  glazing  eyes  revealed — 

An  hour-glass  in  his  hand. 


High  reared  the  fiery,  frantic  steed, 
And  trembled  with  affright  ; 

Then  sank  into  the  yawning  earth, 
And  vanished  from  her  sight ! 


LEONORA.  217 

Wild  bowlings  echoed  through  the  air, 

And  from  the  graves  beneath  ; 
While  Leonora's  throbbing  heart 

Trembled  'twixt  life  and  death. 


Now  round  her,  in  the  pallid  light, 

The  wheeling  spectres  fly, 
And,  as  they  vanish  from  her  sight, 

In  hollow  murmurs  cry  : 
"Repent ;  nor  doubt  the  Father's  love ; 

Submit  to  Heaven's  control  : 
We  yield  thy  body  to  the  earth ; 

May  God  receive  thy  soul." 


218 


FROM    GOETHE'S    FAUST 


PART  SECOND. 


SCENE    AT    THE    COURT    OF    THE    EMPEROR 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

It  seems  that  every  where  on  this  dull  earth 
Something  is  lacking  ; — litre  of  gold  is  dearth. 
'Tis  true  we  cannot  sweep  it  from  the  floor, 
But  wisdom  can  unfathomed  depths  explore. 
In  mountain  clefts  and  dungeons  manifold, 
Are  piles  of  minted  and  unminted  gold, 
And  I  by  spiritual  force  and  trust 
In  mighty  nature,  can  obtain  the  dust. 


219 


CHANCELLOR. 

Nature  and  spirit  ! — never  Christian  spake 
Such  words  as  these. — We  burn  men  at  the  stake 
For  such  profanities.     Foul  words  and  evil  I 
Nature  means  sin,  and  spirit  means  the  Devil ; 
And,  between  both,  is  nursed  the  abortive  brood 
Whose  monster  heresies  mankind  delude. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

By  this  I  see  what  wise-acres  ye  are; 
What  ye  can  handle  not  seems  miles  afar  ; 
What  ye  can  grasp  not  is  an  empty  shade ; 
What  ye  divine  not  must  all  search  evade ; 
That  which  ye  have  not  poised  in  weight  is  stinted 
And  no  coin  current  save  what  ye  have  minted. 


220 


TO  THE    CLOUDS 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


Clouds  that  sweep  the  midnight  heaven, 
On  your  wild  wings  let  me  rove  ; — 

Leave  me  not  with  anguish  riven, 
None  who  love  me — none  to  love. 


Oft,  my  nightly  vigils  keeping, 
I  have  watched  ye  till  the  dawn  ; 

Through  the  far  blue  heavens  sweeping, 
On  your  snowy  pinions  borne. 


TO    THE    CLOUDS.  221 

Away — away,  forever  speeding, 

Careless  wanderers  of  the  air — 
Human  joy  or  woe  unheeding — 

Ah,  ye  pause  not  at  my  prayer : 


Leave,  oh,  leave  me  not  in  sadness — 
Heavenly  longings  in  my  breast — 

Bear  me,  on  your  wings  of  gladness, 
To  the  far  home  of  my  rest. 


On  the  lonely  hills  of  morning 
Breaks  a  red  and  lurid  ray — 

Hide  me,  hide  me  from  the  dawning — 
Fold  me  from  the  dreary  day  ! 


222 


THE   DYING   HEROES 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  UHLAND. 


The  valiant  Danes  drive  back  the  Sweedish  host 
In  wild  confusion  to  the  northern  coast  ; 
The  sounding  chariots  clash — the  bright  swords  gleam, 
The  broad,  round  shields  flash  back  the  moon's  cold 

beam; 

On  the  red  corse-field,  mid  the  the  fierce  affray, 
Lies  the  young  Sven  and  Ulf  the  warrior  grey. 

SVEN. 

Alas !  my  father,  in  the  power  and  bloom 
Of  life,  grim  Norna  calls  me  to  the  tomb  : 
In  vain  my  mother,  from  the  oaken  bough, 
Weaves  a  bright  garland  for  her  warrior's  brow  ;— 
From  her  high  tower  my  Edith  looks  in  vain 
To  see  my  chariot  in  the  victor's  train. 


THE  DYING  HEROES.  223 


ULF 

In  the  grey  night  for  thee  her  tears  shall  fall, 
Till  visioned  sleep  thine  image  shall  recall  ; 
Yet  mourn  not  thus  :  the  path  which  thou  hast  led, 
Though  dark  the  way,  she  will  not  fear  to  tread  ; 
Soon  shall  she,  smiling  through  her  golden  hair, 
For  thee  at  Odin's  feast  the  bowl  prepare. 

SVEN. 

No  more  the  solemn  chaunt  my  voice  shall  raise 
Amid  our  warrior  youth  on  festal  days  ; 
The  deeds  of  kings  and  heroes  sing  no  more ; 
Their  conquering  arms,  their  fates  in  love  and  war ; 
Through  my  neglected  harp  the  wind  shall  sigh 
And  wake  low  dirges  as  it  wanders  by. 

ULF. 

High  towers  above  us,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
The  bright  Valhallah  of  our  fathers'  rest  ; 
The  stars  roll  under  it,  and,  far  below, 
Red  meteors  gleam  and  fiery  comets  glow — 
There,  at  the  solemn  feast,  we  meet  again  . 
Lift  up  thy  song  to  a  triumphal  strain  ! 


224  TRANSLATIONS. 


SVEN. 

Ah  heavy  doom !  thus  from  the  bright  world  torn — 
From  life  and  love  in  youth's  unhonored  morn  ; 
While  yet,  no  proud  deed  of  the  battle  field — 
No  trophied  arms,  are  sculptured  on  my  shield  : 
Twelve  fearful  judges  sit  enthroned  on  high  ; 
How  shall  I  shrink  before  each  awful  eye  ! 

ULF. 

One  lofty  deed  their  favor  shall  secure — 

One  deed  whose  rays  no  shadow  can  obscure ; 

Pours  not  thy  young  heart,  on  this  barren  strand, 

Its  life-blood  freely  for  our  fatherland  ? 

And  see  !  our  foeman  yield  : — the  clouds  are  riven  ! 

There  lies  our  pathway  to  the  halls  of  Heaven  ! 


225 


THE    COTTAGE. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN    OP    GLEIM 


I  have  a  cottage  by  the  hill ; 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green  ; 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill, 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 


Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 

That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves ; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 
Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves, 
16 


2'26  TRANSLATIONS. 

A  red-bird  sings  upon  a  spray, 

Through  the  sweet  summer-time,  night-long, 
And  evening  travelers  on  their  way, 

Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 


Thou,  maiden,  with  the  yellow  hair — 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharp  and  chill — 

Wilt  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there, 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  1 


227 


MY    FLOWERS. 


Sweet  buds  and  berries  gathered,  far  and  wide, 

In  haunted  glens  or  wild  sequestered  ways ; 
By  sun  or  starlight — in  the  purple  pride 

Of  Summer,  or  in  Autumn's  golden  haze; — 
Long  have  I  held  ye,  clasped  within  my  hands, 

Wooing  your  mystic  odors  to  restore 
The  sweet  aroma  of  those  flowery  lands  ; — 

The  perfume  of  the  days  that  are  no  more  : 
Farewell !  kind  hands  are  weaving  for  my  brow 

The  cold  and  slumbrous  garlands  of  the  tomb : 
Farewell !  I  fling  ye  on  the  way-side  now, 

Where  heedless  feet  may  trample  on  your  bloom  ; 
For,  through  the  silence  and  the  o'ershadowing  calm. 

Floats  the  far  perfume  of  the  Eden  palm. 


THE    END. 


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